ACT I.
SCENE 1.—Queenston. A farmhouse.
John Penn, a Quaker, is seated on a chair tilted against the wall. Mr. Secord, his arm in a sling, reclines on a couch, against the end of which a crutch is is placed. Mrs. Secord, occupies a rocking-chair near the lounge. Charlie, a little fellow of four, is seated on her lap holding a ball of yarn from which she is knitting. Charlotte, a girl of twelve, is seated on a stool set a little in rear of the couch; she has a lesson-book in her hand. Harriet, a girl of ten, occupies a stool near her sister, and has a slate on her lap. All are listening intently to the Quaker, who is speaking.
Quaker. The midnight sky, set thick with shining points,
Hung watchingly, while from a band of gloom
That belted in the gloomier woods, stole forth
Foreshortened forms of grosser shade, all barred
With lines of denser blackness, dexter-borne.
Rank after rank, they came, out of the dark,
So silently no pebble crunched beneath
Their feet more sharp than did a woodchuck stir.
And so came on the foe all stealthily,
And found their guns a-limber, fires ablaze,
And men in calm repose.
With bay'nets fixed
The section in advance fell on the camp,
And killed the first two sentries, whose sharp cries
Alarmed a third, who fired, and firing, fled.
This roused the guard, but "Forward!" was the word,
And on we rushed, slaying full many a man
Who woke not in this world.
The 'larum given,
[!-- Begin Page 12 --] A-sudden rose such hubbub and confusion
As is made by belching earthquake. Waked from sleep,
Men stumbled over men, and angry cries
Resounded. Surprised, yet blenching not,
Muskets were seized and shots at random fired
E'en as they fled. Yet rallied they when ours,
At word from Harvey, fell into line,
And stood, right 'mid the fires, to flint their locks—
An awful moment!—
As amid raging storms the warring heaven
Falls sudden silent, and concentrates force
To launch some scathing bolt upon the earth,
So hung the foe, hid in portentous gloom,
While in the lurid light ours halted. Quick,
Red volcanic fire burst from their lines
And mowed us where we stood!
Full many a trembling hand that set a flint
Fell lifeless ere it clicked: yet silent all—
Save groans of wounded—till our rods struck home;
Then, flashing fire for fire, forward we rushed
And scattered them like chaff before the wind.
The King's Own turned their left; the Forty-ninth,
At point of bay'net, pushed the charge, and took
Their guns, they fighting valiantly, but wild,
Having no rallying point, their leaders both
Lying the while all snug at Jemmy Gap's.
And so the men gave in at last, and fled,
And Stony Creek was ours.
Mr. Secord. Brave Harvey! Gallantly planned and carried.
The stroke is good, the consequences better.
Cooped as he is in George, the foe will lack
His forage, and perforce must—eat his stores;
For Yeo holds the lake, and on the land
His range is scarce beyond his guns. And more,
He is the less by these of men to move
On salient points, and long as we hold firm
[!-- Begin Page 13 --] At Erie, Burlington, and Stony Creek,
He's like the wretched bird, he "can't get out."
Mrs. Secord. You speak, friend Penn, as if you saw the fight,
Not like a simple bearer of the news.
Quaker. Why, so I did.
Mrs. Secord. You did! Pray tell us how it was;
For ever have I heard that Quakers shunned
The sight of blood.
Quaker. None more than I.
Yet innate forces sometimes tell o'er use
Against our will. But this was how it happed:
Thou seest, Mistress Secord, I'd a load
Of sound potatoes, that I thought to take
To Vincent's camp, but on the way I met
A British officer, who challenged me; saith he,
"Friend, whither bound?" "Up to the Heights," say I,
"To sell my wares." "Better," saith he,
"Go to the Yankee camp; they'll pay a price
Just double ours, for we are short of cash."
"I'll risk the pay," say I, "for British troops;
Nay, if we're poor, I can afford the load,
And p'rhaps another, for my country's good."
"And say'st thou so, my Quaker! Yet," saith he,
"I hear you Quakers will not strike a blow
To guard your country's rights, nor yet your own."
"No, but we'll hold the stakes," cried I. He laughed.
"Can't you do more, my friend?" quoth he, "I need
A closer knowledge of the Yankee camp:
How strong it is, and how it lies. A brush
Is imminent, and one must win, you know
Shall they?"
His manner was so earnest that, before
I knew, I cried, "Not if I know it, man!"
With a bright smile he answered me, "There spoke
A Briton." Then he directed me
How I might sell my load, what I should mark,
[!-- Begin Page 14 --] And when report to him my observations.
So, after dusk, I met him once again,
And told him all I knew. It pleased him much.
Warmly he shook my hand. "I am," saith he,
"Lieutenant-Colonel Harvey. Should it hap
That I can ever serve you, let me know."
Mrs. Secord. And then you stayed to see the end of it?
Quaker. Mistress, I did. Somewhat against my creed,
I freely own; for what should I, a Quaker,
E'er have to do with soldiers, men of blood!
I mean no slight to you, James.
Mr. Secord (laughing). No, no! go on.
Quaker. Well, when I thought how tired poor Dobbin was,
How late the hour, and that 'twould be a week
Before I'd hear how Harvey sped that night,
I thought I'd stay and see the matter out;
The more, because I kind o' felt as if
Whatever happed I'd had a hand in it.
Mrs. Secord. And pray where did you hide? for hide you must,
So near the Yankee lines.
Quaker. It wasn't hard to do; I knew the ground,
Being a hired boy on that very farm,
Now Jemmy Gap's. There was an elm, where once
I used to sit and watch for chipmunks, that I clomb,
And from its shade could see the Yankee camp,
Its straggling line, its fires, its careless watch;
And from the first I knew the fight was ours,
If Harvey struck that night.
Mr. Secord. Ha! ha! friend John, thine is a soldier's brain
Beneath that Quaker hat.
Quaker (in some embarrassment, rising).
No, no, I am a man of peace, and hate
The very name of war. I must be gone.
(To Mrs. Secord.) My woman longs to see thee, Mistress.
Good-bye to all.
The Little Girls (rising). Good-bye, sir.
Mrs. Secord. Good-bye, John,
'Twould please me much to see my friend again,
But war blots out the sweet amenities
Of life. Give her my love.
Quaker. I will.
Mr. Secord (rising and taking his crutch). I'll walk a piece with you, friend Penn,
And see you past the lines.
[His little daughter, HARRIET, hands him his hat.
Quaker. That's right, 'twill do thee good:
Thy wounds have left thee like an ailing girl,
So poor and pale.
[Exeunt Quaker and MR. SECORD.
Charlotte. Oh, dear, I wish I were a man, to fight
In such brave times as these!
Enter MARY, a girl of fourteen.
Mary. Were wishing aught
Soon should another sword strike for the King,
And those dear rights now rudely overlooked.
Mrs. Secord. My child?
Mary. Oh naught, mamma, save the old tale: no nook
That's not invaded, even one's books
Borrowed without one's leave. I hate it all!
Mrs. Secord. We must be patient, dear, it cannot last.
Harriet. Oh, if we girls were boys, or Charles a man!
Mrs. Secord. Poor baby Charles! See, he's asleep; and now,
Dear girls, seeing we cannot fight, we'll pray
That peace may come again, for strife and blood,
Though wisely spent, are taxes hard to pay.
But come, 'tis late! See Charlie's dropt asleep;
Sing first your evening hymn, and then to bed.
I'll lay the darling down.
Exit MRS. SECORD, with the child in her arms.
Charlotte. You start it, Mary.
Children sing—
HYMN.
| Softly as falls the evening shade, On our bowed heads Thy hands be laid; Surely as fades the parting light, Our sleep be safe and sweet to-night Calmly, securely, may we rest, As on a tender father's breast. Let War's black pinions soar away, And dove-like Peace resume her sway, Our King, our country, be Thy care, Nor ever fail of childhood's prayer. Calmly, securely, may we rest As on a tender father's breast. |
[Exeunt.
SCENE 2.—The same place and the same hour.
Enter MRS. SECORD.
After a weary day the evening falls
With gentle benison of peace and rest.
The deep'ning dusk draws, like a curtain, round,
And gives the soul a twilight of its own;
A soft, sweet time, full of refreshing dews,
And subtle essences of memory
And reflection. O gentle peace, when—
Enter PETE, putting his head in at the door.
Pete. O, mistis! Heh, mistis!
Mrs. Secord. What now, Pete?
Pete. Oh, mistis, dat yar sergeant ossifer—
Dat sassy un what call me "Woolly-bear."
An' kick my shin, he holler 'crass to me:—
"You, Pete, jes' you go in, an' tell Ma'am Secord
I'se comin' in ter supper wiv some frens."
He did jes' so—a sassy scamp.
Mrs. Secord. To-night? At this hour?
Pete. Yes, mistis; jes', jes' now. I done tell Flos
[!-- Begin Page 17 --] Ter put her bes' leg fus', fer I mus' go
An' ten' dat poo', sick hoss.
Mrs. Secord. Nay, you'll do nothing of the kind! You'll stay
And wait upon these men. I'll not have Flos
Left single-handed by your cowardice.
Pete. I aint a coward-ef I hed a club;
Dat poo', sick hoss—
Mrs. Secord. Nonsense! Go call me Flos, and see you play no tricks to-night.
Pete. No, mistis, no; no tricks. [Aside. Ef I'd a club!]
He calls from the door: Flos! Flos! Ma'am Secord wants ye.
Mrs. Secord (spreading a cloth upon the table). God help us if these men much longer live
Upon our failing stores.
Enter FLOS.
What have you got to feed these fellows, Flos?
Flos. De mistis knows it aint much, pas' noo bread,
An' two—three pies. I've sot some bacon sisslin',
An' put some taties on when Pete done tole me.
Pete. Give 'em de cider, mistis, an' some beer,
And let 'em drink 'em drunk till mas'r come
An' tell me kick 'em out.
Flos. You!—jes' hol' yer sassy tongue.
[Footsteps are heard without.
Pete. Dat's um. Dey's comin'. Dat poo', sick hoss—
[He makes for the door.
Mrs. Secord. You, Pete, come back and lay this cloth,
And wait at table properly with Flos.
Enter a Sergeant, a Corporal and four Privates.
Sergeant (striking Pete on the head with his cane). That's for your ugly phiz and impudence.
[Exit PETE, howling.
(To Mrs. Secord.) Your slaves are saucy, Mistress Secord.
Mrs. Secord. Well, sir!
Sergeant. None of my business, eh? Well, 'tis sometimes,
You see. You got my message: what's to eat?
Mrs. Secord. My children's food, sir. This nor post-house is,
Nor inn, to take your orders.
[FLOS and PETE enter, carrying dishes.
Sergeant. O, bless you, we don't order; we command.
Here, men, sit down.
[He seats himself at the head of the table, and the others take their places, some of them greeting MRS. SECORD with a salute of respect.
Boy, fill those jugs. You girl,
Set that dish down by me, and haste with more.
Bacon's poor stuff when lamb and mint's in season.
Why don't you kill that lamb, Ma'am Secord?
Mrs. Secord. 'Tis a child's pet.
Sergeant. O, pets be hanged!
[Exit MRS. SECORD.
Corporal. Poor thing! I'm sure none of us want the lamb.
A Private. We'll have it, though, and more, if Boerstler—
Corporal. Hold your tongue, you—
Second Private (drinking). Here's good luck, my boys, to that surprise—
Corporal (aside). Fool!
Sergeant (drinking). Here's to to-morrow and a cloudy night.
Fill all your glasses, boys.
SCENE 3.—Mrs. Secord's bedroom. She is walking up and down in much agitation.
Enter MR. SECORD.
Mrs. Secord (springing to meet him). Oh, James, where have you been?
Mr. Secord. I did but ramble through the pasture, dear,
And round the orchard. 'Twas so sweet and still.
Save for the echo of the sentry's tread
O'er the hard road, it might have been old times.
But—but—you're agitated, dear; what's wrong?
I see our unasked visitors were here.
Was that—?
Mrs. Secord. Not that; yet that. Oh, James, I scarce can bear
The stormy swell that surges o'er my heart,
Awaked by what they have revealed this night.
Mr. Secord. Dear wife, what is't?
Mrs. Secord. Oh, sit you down and rest, for you will need
All strength you may command to hear me tell.
[Mr. Secord sits down, his wife by him.
That saucy fellow, Winter, and a guard
Came and demanded supper; and, of course,
They had to get it. Pete and Flos I left
To wait on them, but soon they sent them off,
Their jugs supplied,—and fell a-talking, loud,
As in defiance, of some private plan
To make the British wince. Word followed word,
Till I, who could not help but hear their gibes,
Suspected mischief, and, listening, learned the whole.
To-morrow night a large detachment leaves
Fort George for Beaver Dam. Five hundred men,
With some dragoons, artillery, and a train
Of baggage-waggons, under Boerstler, go
To fall upon Fitzgibbon by surprise,
Capture the stores, and pay for Stony Creek.
Mr. Secord. My God! and here am I, a paroled cripple!
Oh, Canada, my chosen country! Now—
Is't now, in this thy dearest strait, I fail?
I, who for thee would pour my blood with joy—
Would give my life for thy prosperity—
Most I stand by, and see thy foes prevail
Without one thrust?
[In his agitation he rises.
Mrs. Secord. Oh, calm thee, dear; thy strength is all to me.
Fitzgibbon shall be warned, or aid be sent.
Mr. Secord. But how, wife? how? Let this attempt succeed,
As well it may, and vain last year's success;
In vain fell Brock: in vain was Queenston fought:
In vain we pour out blood and gold in streams:
[!-- Begin Page 20 --] For Dearborn then may push his heavy force
Along the lakes, with long odds in his favour.
And I, unhappy wretch, in such a strait
Am here, unfit for service. Thirty men
Are all Fitzgibbon has to guard the stores
And keep a road 'twixt Bisshopp and De Haren.
Those stores, that road, would give the Yankee all.
Mrs. Secord. Why, be content now, dear. Had we not heard,
This plot might have passed on to its dire end,
Like the pale owl that noiseless cleaves the dark,
And, on its dreaming prey, swoops with fell claw.
Mr. Secord. What better is it?
Mrs. Secord. This; that myself will go to Beaver Dam,
And warn Fitzgibbon: there is yet a day.
Mr. Secord. Thou! thou take a task at which a man might shrink?
No, no, dear wife! Not so.
Mrs. Secord. Ay, prithee, let me go;
'Tis not so far. And I can pass unharmed
Where you would be made prisoner, or worse.
They'll not hurt me—my sex is my protection.
Mr. Secord. Oh, not in times like these. Let them suspect
A shadow wrong, and neither sex, nor tears,
Nor tenderness would save thy fate.
Mrs. Secord. Fear not for me. I'll be for once so wise
The sentries shall e'en put me on my way.
Once past the lines, the dove is not more swift
Nor sure to find her distant home than I
To reach Fitzgibbon. Say I may go.
Mr. Secord (putting his arm 'round her tenderly). How can I let thee go? Thy tender feet
Would bleed ere half the way was done. Thy strength
Would fail 'twixt the rough road and summer heat,
And in some, gloomy depth, faint and alone,
Thou would'st lie down to die. Or, chased and hurt
By wolf or catamount, thy task undone,
[!-- Begin Page 21 --] Thy precious life would then be thrown away.
I cannot let thee go.
Mrs. Secord. Not thrown away! Nay, say not that, dear James.
No life is thrown away that's spent in doing duty.
But why raise up these phantoms of dismay?
I did not so when, at our country's call,
You leapt to answer. Said I one word
To keep you back? and yet my risk was greater
Then than now—a woman left with children
On a frontier farm, where yelling savages,
Urged on, or led, by renegades, might burn,
And kill, and outrage with impunity
Under the name of war. Yet I blenched not,
But helped you clean your musket, clasped your belt,
And sent you forth, with many a cheery word.
Did I not so?
Mr. Secord. Thou didst indeed, dear wife, thou didst.
But yet,—
I cannot let thee go, my darling.
Did I not promise in our marriage vow,
And to thy mother, to guard thee as myself.
Mrs. Secord. And so you will if now you let me go.
For you would go yourself, without a word
Of parley, were you able; leaving me
The while in His good hands; not doubting once
But I was willing. Leave me there now, James,
And let me go; it is our country calls.
Mr. Secord. Ah, dearest wife, thou dost not realize
All my deep promise, "guard thee as myself?"
I meant to guard thee doubly, trebly more.
Mrs. Secord. There you were wrong. The law says "as thyself
Thou shalt regard thy neighbour."
Mr. Secord. My neighbour! Then is that all that thou art
To me, thy husband? Shame! thou lovest me not.
My neighbour!
Mrs. Secord. Why now, fond ingrate! What saith the Book?
"THE GOOD, with all thy soul and mind and strength;
Thy neighbour as thyself." Thou must not love
Thyself, nor me, as thou must love the Good.
Therefore, I am thy neighbour; loved as thyself:
And as thyself wouldst go to warn Fitzgibbon
If thou wert able, so I, being able,
Thou must let me go—thy other self.
Pray let me go!
Mr. Secord (after a pause). Thou shalt, dear wife, thou shalt. I'll say no more.
Thy courage meets the occasion. Hope shall be
My standard-bearer, and put to shame
The cohorts black anxiety calls up.
But how shall I explain to prying folks
Thine absence?
Mrs. Secord. Say I am gone to see my brother,
'Tis known he's sick; and if I venture now
'Twill serve to make the plot seem still secure.
I must start early.
Mr. Secord. Yet not too soon, lest ill surmise
Aroused by guilty conscience doubt thy aim.
Mrs. Secord. That's true.
Yet at this time of year do travellers start
Almost at dawn to avoid the midday heats.
Tell not the children whither I am bound;
Poor darlings! Soon enough anxiety
Will fall upon them; 'tis the heritage
Of all; high, low, rich, poor; he chiefly blest
Who travels farthest ere he meets the foe.
There's much to do to leave the household straight,
I'll not retire to-night.
Mr. Secord. Oh, yes, dear wife, thou shalt not spend thy strength
On household duties, for thou'lt need it all
Ere thy long task be done. O, but I fear—
Mrs. Secord (quickly). Fear nothing!
Trust heaven and do your best, is wiser.
Should I meet harm,'twill be in doing duty:
Fail I shall not!
Mr. Secord. Retire, dear wife, and rest; I'll watch the hours
Beside thee.
Mrs. Secord. No need to watch me, James, I shall awake.
[
Aside
. And yet perhaps 'tis best.
If he wake now he'll sleep to-morrow
Perforce of nature; and banish thus
Some hours of sad anxiety.]
Mr. Secord. I'd better watch.
Mrs. Secord. Well then, to please you! But call me on the turn
Of night, lest I should lose an hour or two
Of cooler travel.
SCENE 4—Daybreak on the 23rd June, 1813.
The porch of Mr. Secord's farmhouse. A garden path, with a gate that opens on to the high road from Newark to Twelve-Mile Creek.
Enter JAMES SECORD and his wife.
Mr. Secord. Heaven speed thee, then, dear wife. I'll try to bear
The dreadful pangs of helplessness and dread
With calm demeanour, if a bursting heart.
Mrs. Secord. Then will you taste a woman's common lot
In times of strait, while I essay man's rôle
Of fierce activity. We will compare
When I return. Now, fare-thee-well, my husband.
(Fearful of being observed, they part without an embrace. Mrs. Secord walks down the garden slowly, and gathers a few clove pinks; a the gate she stops as though the latch were troublesome, raises the flowers to her lips, and makes a slight salute to her husband, who yet stands within the porch watching [!-- Begin Page 24 --] her. She then rapidly pursues her way, but soon encounters an American sentry, whom she essays to pass with a nod and a smile: the man prevents her by bringing his musket to the charge, and challenging.)
Mrs. Secord. Why do you stop me?
Sentry. Where is your pass?
You know that none may take the road without one.
Mrs. Secord. But surely I may go to milk my cow,
Yonder she is.
[A cow is seen in the clearing.
She's wandered in the night.
I'll drive her back again, poor thing.
She likes new pasture best, as well she may.
Sentry. Keep you your kine at home, you've land enough.
Mrs. Secord. Why, that's our land, and those our barns and sheds.
Sentry. Well, pass!
[He suddenly observes the flowers.
But where's your milking pail?
I guess the bunch of flowers is for the cow.
Mrs. Secord (gently). You are too rough! The pinks weep dewy tears
Upon my hand to chide you. There, take them;
[She offers him the flowers.
And let their fragrance teach you courtesy,
At least to women. You can watch me.
Sentry. Madam, suspicion blunts politeness. Pass.
I'll take your flowers, and thank you, too;
'Tis long since that I saw their fellows in
The old folks' garden.
(Mrs. Secord crosses the road, takes a rail out of the fence, which she replaces after having passed into the clearing, and proceeds to the barn, whence she brings an old pail, luckily left there, and approaches the cow.)
Mrs. Secord (aside). Could I but get her out of sight, I'd drive
The creature round the other way, and go
My own. Pray Heaven the sentry watch me not
Too closely; his manner roused my fears.
[She waves her hand at the cow, which moves on.
Co' boss! co' boss. Sh! Haste thee, poor cow;
Fly from me! though never didst thou yet:
Nor should'st do now, but for the stake I play.
[Both disappear in the bush.
Sentry (apostrophising the disappearing "enemy"). Well, mistress, were you gentle as your face,
The creature wouldn't run you such a race.
It serves you right! The cows my Anna milks,
Come at her call, like chickens. O, sweet voice,
When shall I hear you next? Even as I pace
With measured step this hot and dusty road,
The soft June breezes take your tones, and call,
"Come, Henry, come." Would that I could!
Would I had never joined!
But my hot blood o'ermastered my cool sense,
Nor let me see that always is not bought
Honour by arms, but often dire disgrace.
For so it is, as now I clearly see,
We let the animal within remain
Unbroke, till neither gyve nor gear will serve
To steady him, only a knock-down blow.
Had I, and others, too, within the ranks,
Haltered our coltish blood, we should have found
That hate to England, not our country's name
And weal, impelled mad Madison upon this war;
And shut the mouths of thousand higher men
Than he.
It is a lesson may I learn
So as to ne'er forget, that in the heat of words
Sparks oft are struck that should be straightway quenched
In cool reflection; not enlarged and fed
With passionate tinder, till a flame is blown
That reaches past our bonds, and leaves behind
Black, sullen stumps where once the green trees grew.
If honour's what we want, there's room enough
For that, and wild adventure, too, in the West,
At half the cost of war, in opening up
A road shall reach the great Pacific.
(A step). Ha! Who goes there?
[Exit.
SCENE 5.—The Road at the foot of Queenston Heights.
Mrs. Secord (looking in the direction of her home). Gone! Gone! Quite out of sight! Farewell, my home,
Casket that holds my jewels! If no more
My happy eyes rest on thy lowly roof,
If never more my ears drink in the sounds
Of sweeter music, in your loving tones,
My darlings, than e'er was drawn from harp
The best attuned, by wandering Aeolus,
Then let my memory, like some fond relic laid
In musk and lavender, softly exhale
A thousand tender thoughts to soothe and bless;
And let my love hide in your heart of hearts,
And with ethereal touch control your lives,
Till in that better home we meet again.
(She covers her face with her hands, and weeps unrestrainedly for a few seconds, then recovers herself, and raises her hands in prayer.)
Guard them and me, O Heaven.
[She resumes her journey, but still gazes In the direction of the Heights.
And Brock! McDonnell! Dennis!
All ye hero band, who fell on yonder Heights!
If I should fall, give me a place among ye,
And a name will be my children's pride,
For all—my all—I risk, as ye, to save
My country.
[Exit.