CHAPTER VIII.
The army did not begin a forward movement towards Canada on the day of Morton’s interview with Hampton. It was only the first of several abortive starts, and the autumn days were drawing towards an end with the army still encamped at Four Corners. The American public was indignant at its inaction: much had been expected of the army, yet it had accomplished nothing, and the campaigning season was near an end. The denunciations of the Albany and New York newspapers Hampton could not stoop to reply to: those of the Washington authorities he answered by laying the blame upon Wilkinson. He was to move on Montreal in conjunction with that general, and his failure to leave Sackett’s Harbor he gave as the cause of his own inaction. To the critics who suggested he had sufficient strength to capture Montreal unaided, he represented that his orders from Washington expressly required him to co-operate with the flotilla that was hugging the shelter of Sackett’s Harbor. If he was left free to act by the secretary-of-war, he would show the country what he could do, but he was not free. There were those who thought his excuses were the offspring of his secret wish, to get out of the campaign without risking any great movement. In all those days of dallying, Morton lay forlorn in the stable, sick of his confinement and of prolonged suspense, until the doctor, taking pity upon him, asked, if the General could be induced to grant him the freedom of the camp on parole, would he accept it? Eager to get out of his dismal prison and hopeless of escape, Morton eagerly embraced the offer, and next day he was told he was at liberty to leave his wretched abode during daylight. The boon proved to be of less advantage than he had anticipated. The officers would not consort with him, professing to believe he had been a party to the disfigurement and murder of their late comrade, and the rank-and-file swore at him as an abettor of the Indians and as a Britisher. The miscarriage of the campaign had soured the tempers of the troops, and they were ready to vent it upon Morton or any other of the enemy who came within reach of their tongues. After a few hours’ unpleasant experience, Morton returned to his stable indignant and humiliated. Altho’ thus cut off from intercourse with the military, he enjoyed the freedom of moving about. Even lying on the grass and watching the face of nature, was inexpressibly sweet to him. In course of time he scraped acquaintance with a few civilians, and especially with a storekeeper, Douglass, a Scotchman, who showed him such kindness as he dared without bringing upon himself the suspicion of disloyalty. The weather, which had been uninterruptedly dry and hot, underwent a sudden change, to wet and cold, and from suspense as to when they would march into Canada the troops began to hope that orders would come from Washington to retire into winter-quarters. One particularly cold, rainy evening, Morton retired to rest in a mood that was in keeping with his dismal surroundings, and courted sleep to give him temporary relief. How long he might have been lost in slumber he was unconscious, when awakened by something lightly passing over his face. “Keep quiet,” said a voice: “do not cry or you may attract the guard.” The darkness was intense; the patter of the rain on the roof the only sound without. The voice Morton recognized at once as Hemlock’s.
“How did you get here? Do you not know they would tear you limb from limb if they found you?”
“I know it all, but an Indian brave counts nothing when he goes to save a friend. Get up and go with me.”
A momentary feeling of exultation fluttered in Morton’s breast at the prospect of liberty, followed by the depressing recollection that he had given his word not to escape.
“I cannot go with you,” he said in a voice of despair.
“Why? You are well of your hurt, and you can run a mile or two if we are followed. Come, my arm will help you.”
“Hemlock, had you come a fortnight ago I would have jumped at your call: I cannot tonight, for I have given my word of honor not to escape. I am a prisoner on parole.”
“Honor! Did these Americans treat you as men of honor, when they put the rope round your neck? Your promise is nothing. Come!”
“I cannot, Hemlock. Let them be what they may, it shall never be said that a British officer broke his word. Leave me; get away at once, or you may be caught.”
“I will not leave without you. Think of the fair doe that sorrows in secret by the Chateaugay for you and sought me out to bring you. Come, you shall be with her before another sun has set.”
Morton was puzzled by this speech, but was too anxious concerning Hemlock’s safety to delay by asking what it meant.
“Save yourself, Hemlock; the patrol will be round soon, and if you are discovered you are lost.”
“I fear not: they cannot take me alive.”
“For my sake, then, go; I will not leave, I will keep the promise I have given. Consider this my friend, if you are found here it is death to me as well as you. Go.”
“Not without you; I will carry you on my back, whether you will or not,” and he laid his hand upon Morton to grasp hold of him. At that moment, the sound of the tramp of an approaching detachment of soldiers was heard. “It is the patrol, Hemlock; fly for God’s sake.”
Hemlock stepped to the door for an instant, then turning to Morton whispered, “they have torches and will see what I have done, and that will give the alarm. Come, go with me.”
“I cannot,” said Morton decisively.
“Then, give me a token to show her who sent me that I did my duty,” said Hemlock. Eager for his escape, Morton plucked the signet-ring from his finger and pressed it into the Indian’s hand with a farewell grasp. Noiselessly and swiftly Hemlock glided out, across the open, and was lost to sight. Seeing how near the patrol were, Morton closed the door and lay down upon his bed of straw. He heard the tramp of the troops draw nearer, and then a sharp cry of “Halt!” followed by a shout of horror and a volley of curses. “The damned Indians are about!” a voice cried. “Poor Tom,” said another, “he died like a stuck pig.” “See to the Britisher,” shouted a third, “he must know of it.” “Back to your ranks,” commanded the officer, “I will see to what is to be done.” Sending a messenger to headquarters to report, he detailed three others to approach the stable and bring out Morton. One of the three remonstrated. “The redskin may be hiding there and kill us.” “Obey orders,” yelled the officer to his men, who had peculiar ideas of military obedience. “Our muskets cover you.”
Reluctantly they approached, and two simultaneously burst in the door with a rush, while the third held a torch. Their only discovery was Morton lying in his bed. He was roughly dragged to the captain, who, with his men, stood around something stretched upon the grass.
“What do you know of this, prisoner?” asked the captain, and a soldier waved a torch over the object. Morton, with a shudder, perceived it was the body of a soldier that had been stabbed in the breast, and scalped.
“This body is warm,” said the captain, “the deed has been done within a quarter of an hour: you lay within 20 yards of its perpetration; I demand what you know of the slaughter of this sentry of the United States army.”
Morton hesitated. He had no moral doubt that Hemlock had committed the deed, and that the scalp of the dead man was then dangling from his belt, and in his horror of the act was about to tell all, when he suddenly recollected that by doing so he would show himself ungrateful to Hemlock.
“I neither saw nor heard aught of this foul murder,” answered Morton, but his hesitation in replying was noted by men disposed to suspect him. “Let me put my bayonet through him,” said one of the soldiers with an oath, as he rushed upon Morton. There was a flash from the adjoining bush, the crack of a rifle, and the soldier fell dead, with a bullet in his forehead.
“Out with the lights,” shrieked the captain in a transport of fear, as he struck one torch down with his sword and the others were thrown into the pools of rainwater. For a minute or two they listened with palpitating hearts in the darkness, and then the captain whispered for them to move to headquarters, the lights of which were seen near by. Forgotten by them in their alarm, Morton made his way back to the stable and flung himself down on his pallet of straw, perplexed and agitated. In vain he tried to sleep and the night dragged wearily on. When daylight at last began to dawn upon a scene of sullen rain and sodden fields, the sound of voices told him his captors were on the alert. The door was violently opened and a soldier looked in and reported to his comrades outside, “The varmint is still here,” to which he heard the reply, “That beats me!” An hour later a scout entered, lighted a candle, and proceeded to examine the floor of the stable and its contents. When he was done, the door was bolted and, Morton felt assured, a sentry placed outside. Breakfast time passed without his caterer appearing and the forenoon was well advanced before he was disturbed, when a detachment of troops halted and an officer entered. “I have come, Mr Morton, to take you to headquarters.”
Going out, Morton was placed between files and marched to the General’s quarters, where he was shown into a room where several officers were seated. Motioned to stand at the foot of the table, the presiding officer, a tall, cadaverous man, asked him to tell what he knew of the event of the past night.
“Is this a court-martial and am I on trial?”
“No, it is a committee of enquiry. There ain’t no call for trying you, seein’ you are already a condemned culprit.”
“Then, why should I answer you?”
“Wall, if you make a clean breast of it, we mought recommend the General to commute your sentence.”
“And should I not see fit to answer this irregular tribunal?”
“I ain’t going to knock round the bush with you. At home, everybody knows Major Spooner as up-and-down, frank and square, and I tell you, if you don’t spit out all you know, the rope won’t be taken off your neck a second time.”
“What I know of last night’s shocking event I am ready to communicate to any gentleman who approaches me in an honorable manner, but I scorn to say a word under threats.”
The officers here exchanged nods and winks, and one said: “I knew Mister President, he wouldn’t tell—he dassn’t. He had a hand in killing Jackson—gagged his mouth, mebbe, while the redskin drew his knife.”
Morton, stung to the quick, turned indignantly to the speaker, “Sir, if I had my sword you would either take back your words or know what cold steel is.”
“Pshaw,” was the contemptuous retort, “I don’t care for anything in the shape of a Britisher.”
“That’s so, and you know first-rate how to rile one,” exclaimed the presiding officer approvingly. Then addressing Morton, he added, “We ain’t afeared of your threats, young man, and won’t lose time with you—yes or no, are you going to give evidence?”
“No,” answered Morton firmly.
“That will do: withdraw the prisoner.”
“Excuse me, Major Spooner,” said a voice behind. Morton turned and saw standing by the door an officer whose bearing indicated he was a soldier by profession and not one of a few months’ standing. “I came in after the examination had begun and therefore did not take my seat at the board. If you will allow me, I will endeavor to represent to the accused how matters stand.”
“Sartainly, Colonel Vanderberg; yer ken try him.”
“Then, Mr Morton, the case stands thus: last night one of our men on guard, posted near where you slept, was stabbed and scalped. I need not say, I do not believe for a moment you had any hand in that deed. However, this morning experts were sent to discover the trail of the perpetrator, and they, favored by the softness of the soil, traced the steps of the moccasined feet of an Indian to where the guard stood, thence to your lodging-place and finally from it to the bush whence came the shot that killed one of the patrol. More than all this, I may tell you the footmarks of the Indian are plain inside the stable and beside the place in it where you slept are marks caused by drops of blood. It is thus beyond all question that the Indian visited you, and, with a view to discovering him and so checking a system of barbarous warfare repulsive to all true soldiers, we ask you to tell us what you know of him—ask you, not under threats or taking advantage of your unfortunate position, but as a gentleman and a soldier to assist us by telling what you know of the mysterious affair.”
Morton bowed to the Colonel and replied he had no hesitation in telling him what he knew, and he recounted briefly how he had been awakened during the night by an Indian and urged to fly with him. He was prepared to take oath that he knew not of his slaying the guard, and the drops of blood upon the straw that formed his bed must have dripped from the scalp as the Indian stooped over him and urged him to accompany him. Morton mentioned no name, and none of his questioners seemed to think he could have known the Indian. At any rate their incredulity of his story, verging on disgust, rendered cross-questioning superfluous, Major Spooner said he could not swallow the yarn, and another officer remarked it would be easier for him to go without his bitters for a month than believe a Britisher would not run away when he had a chance, to which the others agreed.
“What!” exclaimed Morton, “do you think, after giving my word of honor to your General that I would not attempt to escape, that I would do so?”
“That is just what we do think, and that there was something we don’t know of that kept you from running away with the Indian.”
Morton’s anger again rose and he was about to say something rash, when Colonel Vanderberg gave his shoulder a monitory touch. “If none of you object, I will take charge of Mr Morton.”
“Yer welkim to the critter,” remarked Major Spooner, at which the others expectorated in order to laugh. “He is under sentence of death, and it lies with the General to say when it shall be carried out. If he is willing you should undertake the provost-marshal’s duty, this committee of enquiry offer you their congratulations.”
To this raillery Colonel Vanderberg said naught, and taking Morton by the arm led him into a vacant room. “Stay here for a minute,” he said. On re-entering he grasped Morton by the hand, while he informed him “the General has given me permission to take you with me, and will you ride with me to Fort Hickory?”
“With all my heart,” answered Morton, and going to the door found several troopers waiting the Colonel, who pointed to Morton to get on the back of one of three spare horses. He did so and they galloped out of the village.