ACT II.
SCENE 1.—The great kitchen at St. David's Mill. Breakfast-time.
At the board are seated the Widow Stephen Secord, Sergeant George Mosier, and little Tom. Babette is waiting at table.
Widow. 'Tis pitiful to see one's land go waste
For want of labour, and the summer days,
So rich in blessing, spend their fruitful force
On barren furrows. And then to think
That over both the Provinces it is the same,—
No men to till the land, because the war
Needs every one. God knows how we shall feed
Next year: small crop, small grist,—a double loss
To me. The times are anxious.
(To Sergeant Mosier.) Have you news?
Sergeant. Not much, ma'am, all is pretty quiet still
Since Harvey struck them dumb at Stony Creek.
Along the Lake bold Yeo holds them fast,
And, Eric-way, Bisshopp and Evans back him.
Thus stand we now; but Proctor's all too slow.
O had we Brock again, bold, wise, and prompt,
That foreign rag that floats o'er Newark's spires
Would soon go down, and England's ensign up.
Widow. Ah, was he not a man! and yet so sweet,
So courteous, and so gentle.
Babette. Ah, oui, madame.
So kind! not one rough word he ever had,
The Général, but bow so low, "Merci, Babette,"
For glass of milk, et petit chose comme ça.
Ah, long ago it must be he was French:
Some grand seigneur, sans doute, in Guernsey then.
Ah the brave man, madame, cé hero la!
Widow. Yes, brave indeed, Babette, but English, English.
Oh, bravery, good girl, is born of noble hearts,
And calls the world its country, and its sex
Humanity.
Babette. Madame?
Widow. You do not understand me, not; but you
Were very brave and noble-hearted when
You faced the wolf that scented the young lambs.
Babette. Brave! moi! Madame is kind to say it so.
But bravery of women—what is that
To bravery of man?
Tom. An' that's just what I said to Hatty, mother,
When she declared that Aunty Laura was
As brave as soldiers, 'cause she went an' fetched
Poor Uncle James from off the battlefield.
After the fight was over. That wasn't much!
Widow. You're but an ignorant little boy, my son,
But might be wiser were you not so pert.
Sergeant. I heard not that before, ma'am.
Widow. Did you not?
'Tis very true. Upon that dreadful day,
After Brock fell, and in the second fight,
When with the Lincoln men and Forty-first
Sheaffe led the attack, poor Captain Secord dropped,
Shot, leg and shoulder, and bleeding there he lay,
With numbers more, when evening fell; for means
Were small to deal with wounded men, and all,
Soldiers and citizens, were spent and worn
With cruel trials. So when she learned he lay
Among the wounded, his young wife took up
A lantern in her hand, and searched the field—
Whence sobs and groans and cries rose up to heaven
And paled the tearful stars—until she found
The man she loved, not sure that life remained.
Then binding him as best she might, she bore,
With some kind aid, the fainting body home,—
If home it could be called where rabid hate
Had spent its lawless rage in deeds of spite;
Where walls and roof were torn with many balls,
And shelter scarce was found.
That very night,
[!-- Begin Page 29 --] Distrustful lest the foe, repulsed and wild,
Should launch again his heavier forces o'er
The flood, she moved her terror-stricken girls—
Four tender creatures—and her infant boy,
Her wounded husband and her two young slaves,
'Neath cover of thick darkness to the farm,
A mile beyond: a feat even for a man.
And then she set her woman's wit and love
To the long task of nursing back to health
Her husband, much exhaust through loss of blood,
and all the angry heat of gunshot wounds.
But James will never be himself again
Despite her care.
Sergeant. 'Twas well and bravely done.
Yet oft I think the women of these days
Degenerate to those I knew in youth.
Widow. You're hasty, Sergeant, already hath this war
Shown many a young and delicate woman
A very hero for—her hero's sake;
Nay, more, for others'. She, our neighbour there
At Queenston, who when our troops stood still,
Weary and breathless, took her young babe,
Her husband under arms among the rest,
And cooked and carried for them on the field:
Was she not one in whom the heroic blood
Ran thick and strong as e'er in times gone by?
O Canada, thy soil is broadcast strown
With noble deeds: a plague on him, I say,
Who follows with worse seed!
(She rises and prepares for making pies. Babette clears off the table, and Sergeant George smokes his pipe, sitting close to the open chimney, now filled with fresh branches of spruce and cedar.)
Sergeant. Well, mistress, p'rhaps you're right; old folks aye think
Old times the best; but now your words recall
The name of one, the bravest of her sex,
[!-- Begin Page 30 --] So far as e'er I saw, save, p'rhaps, the Baroness.
Tender of frame, most gentle, softly raised,
And young, the Lady Harriet Acland shared,
With other dames whose husbands held commands,
The rough campaign of 'Seventy-six.
But her lot fell so heavy, and withal
She showed such spirit, cheerfulness, and love,
Her name became a watchword in the ranks.
Widow. And what about her, Sergeant?
Sergeant. Well, mistress, as you ask I'll tell the tale:
She was the wife of Major John Dyke-Acland,
An officer of Grenadiers, then joined
To Highland Frazer's arm of Burgoyne's troops.
At Chamblée he was wounded. Leaving the Fort,
His wife crossed lake and land, by means so rough
As tried the strength of men, to nurse him.
Recovered; next he fought Ticonderoga,
And there was badly wounded. Lake Champlain
She traversed to his aid in just a batteau.
No sooner was he better, than again
He joined his men, always the first to move,
And so alert their situation was,
That all slept in their clothes. In such a time
The Major's tent took fire, and he, that night,
But for a sergeant's care, who dragged him out,
Had lost his life. Twice saved he was;
For thinking that his wife still lay within,
Burning to death, he broke away,
And plunged into the fiery mass. But she,
Scarce half awake, had crept from out the tent,
And gained her feet in time to see him rush
In search of her—a shuddering sight to one
Loving and loved so well. But luckily,
Both then were saved. She also shared the march
That followed up the foe, action impending
At every step; and when the fight began,
Though sheltered somewhat, heard all the din,
[!-- Begin Page 31 --] The roar of guns, and bursting shells, and saw
The hellish fire belch forth, knowing the while
Her husband foremost in the dreadful fray.
Nay, more; her hut was all the shelter given
To dress the wounded first; so her kind eyes
Were forced to witness sights of ghastly sort,
Such as turn surgeons faint; nor she alone,
Three other ladies shared her anxious care:
But she was spared the grief they knew too soon,
Her husband being safe.
But when Burgoyne
At Saratoga lost the bloody day,
The Major came not back—a prisoner he,
And desperate wounded. After anxiety
So stringent and prolonged, it seemed too much
To hope the lady could support such sting
And depth of woe, yet drooped she not; but rose
And prayed of Burgoyne, should his plans allow,
To let her pass into the hostile camp,
There to beseech for leave to tend her husband.
Full pitifully Burgoyne granted her
The boon she asked, though loath to let her go;
For she had passed hours in the drenching rain,
Sleepless and hungry; nor had he e'en a cup
Of grateful wine to offer. He knew
Her danger, too, as she did,—that she might fall
In cruel hands; or, in the dead of night
Approaching to the lines, be fired on.
Yet yielding to her prayer, he let her go,
Giving her all he could, letters to Gates,
And for her use an open boat.
Thus she set forth, with Chaplain Brudenell
For escort, her maid, and the poor Major's man—
Thus was she rowed adown the darkling stream.
Night fell before they reached the enemy's posts,
And all in vain they raised the flag of truce,
The sentry would not even let them land,
[!-- Begin Page 32 --] But kept them there, all in the dark and cold,
Threatening to fire upon them if they stirred
Before the break of day. Poor lady! Sad
Were her forebodings through those darksome hours,
And wearily her soft maternal frame
Bore such great strain. But as the dark
Grows thickest ere the light appears, so she
Found better treatment when the morning broke.
With manly courtesy, proud Gates allowed
Her wifely claim, and gave her all she asked.
Widow. Could he do less! Yes, Sergeant, I'll allow
Old times show tender women bold and brave
For those they love, and 'twill be ever so.
And yet I hold that woman braver still
Who sacrifices all she loves to serve
The public weal.
Sergeant. And was there ever one?
Widow. Oh, yes—
Enter MRS. SECORD.
Why, Laura! Now you're just too late
To have your breakfast with us. But sit down.
(
She calls
.) Babette! Babette!
Enter BABETTE.
Haste, girl, and make fresh tea,
Boil a new egg, and fry a bit of ham,
And bring a batch-cake from the oven; they're done
By this.
[Exit BABETTE.
(
To Mrs. Secord
.) Take off your things, my dear;
You've come to stay a day or two with Charles,
Of course. He'll be awake just now. He's weak,
But better. How got you leave to come?
[SERGEANT GEORGE is leaving the kitchen.
Stay, Sergeant, you should know James Secord's wife,
Poor Charles's sister.
(
To Mrs. Secord
.) Laura, this is a friend
You've heard us speak of, Sergeant George Mosier,
My father's crony, and poor Stephen's, too.
Mrs. Secord (curtesying). I'm glad to meet you, sir.
Sergeant (bowing low). Your servant, madam,
I hope your gallant husband is recovered.
Mrs. Secord. I thank you, sir, his wound, but not his strength,
And still his arm is crippled.
Sergeant. A badge of honour, madam, like to mine,
[He points to his empty sleeve.
Enter BABETTE with tray.
[Exit SERGEANT GEORGE.
Widow. That's right, girl, set it here. (To Mrs. Secord.) Come eat a bit.
That ham is very nice, 'tis Gloucester fed,
And cured-malt-coombs, you know, so very sweet.
(To Babette.) Mind thou the oven, lass, I've pies to bake,
And then a brisket.
[Exit BABETTE.
(
To Mrs. Secord
.) I thought you fast
Within the lines: how got you leave to come?
Mrs. Secord. I got no leave; three several sentries I,
With words of guile, have passed, and still I fear
My ultimate success. 'Tis not to see
Poor Charles I came, but to go further on
To Beaver Dam, and warn Fitzgibbon there
Of a foul plot to take him by surprise
This very night. We found it out last eve,
But in his state poor James was helpless,
So I go instead.
Widow. You go to Beaver Dam! Nineteen long miles
On hot and dusty roads, and all alone!
You can't, some other must.
Mrs. Secord. I must, no other can. The time is short,
And through the virgin woods my way doth lie,
For should those sentries meet, or all report
[!-- Begin Page 34 --] I passed their bounds, suspicion would be waked,
And then what hue and cry!
Widow. The woods! and are you crazed? You cannot go!
The woods are full of creatures wild and fierce,
And wolves prowl round about. No path is blazed,
No underbrush is cleared, no clue exists
Of any kind to guide your feet. A man
Could scarce get through, how then shall you?
Mrs. Secord. I have a Guide in Heaven. This task is come
To me without my seeking. If no word
Reaches Fitzgibbon ere that murderous horde
Be on him, how shall he save himself?
And if defeat he meets, then farewell all
Our homes and hopes, our liberties and lives.
Widow. Oh, dear! oh, dear! and must you risk your life,
Your precious life? Think of it, Laura, yet:
Soldiers expect to fight; and keep strict watch
Against surprise. Think of your little girls,
Should they be left without a mother's care;
Your duty is to them, and surely not
In tasks like this. You go to risk your life.
As if you had a right, and thereby leave
Those who to you owe theirs, unpitied,
Desolate. You've suffered now enough
With all you've lost, and James a cripple, too,
What will the children do should they lose you
Just when their youthful charms require your care?
They'll blame you, Laura, when they're old enough
To judge what's right.
Mrs. Secord. I do not fear it.
Children can see the right at one quick glance,
For, unobscured by self or prejudice,
They mark the aim, and not the sacrifice
Entailed.
Widow. Did James consent to have you go?
Mrs. Secord. Not till he found there was no other way;
He fretted much to think he could not go.
Widow. I'm sure he did. A man may undergo
A forced fatigue, and take no lasting hurt,
But not a woman. And you so frail—
It is your life you risk. I sent my lads,
Expecting them to run the chance of war,
And these you go to warn do but the same.
Mrs. Secord. You see it wrong; chances of war to those
Would murder be to these, and on my soul,
Because I knew their risk, and warned them not.
You'll think I'm right when tramp of armed men,
And rumble of the guns disturb you in your sleep.
Then, in the calmer judgment night-time brings,
You'd be the first to blame the selfish care
That left a little band of thirty men
A prey to near six hundred.
Widow. Just the old story! Six hundred—it's disgraceful!
Why, Were they tailors—nine to make a man—
'Tis more than two to one. Oh, you must go.
Mrs. Secord. I knew you'd say so when you came to think:
It was your love to me that masked your judgment.
I'll go and see poor Charles, but shall not say
My real errand, 'twould excite him so.
[Exit MRS. SECORD.
Widow. Poor Laura! Would to God I knew some way
To lighten her of such a task as this.
[Enter SERGEANT GEORGE.
Sergeant. Is it too early for the invalid?
The lads are here, and full of ardour.
Widow. Oh, no, his sister's with him.
[Exit SERGEANT.
[A bugle is heard sounding the assembly.
Enter MRS. SECORD in alarm.
Mrs. Secord. What's that! What's that!
Widow. I should have warned you, dear,
But don't be scared, its Sergeant George's boys.
He's gathered quite a company of lads
[!-- Begin Page 36 --] From round about, with every match-lock, gun,
Or fowling-piece the lads could find, and drills
Them regularly every second morn.
He calls 'em "Young St. David's Yeoman Guard,"
Their horses, "shankses naigie." Look you here!
(Both ladies look through the open window from which is visible the driving shed: here are assembled some twenty lads of all ages and heights, between six and sixteen. They carry all sorts of old firelocks and are "falling in." They are properly sized, and form a "squad with intervals." In the rear stands a mash-tub with a sheepskin stretched over it for a drum, and near it is the drummer-boy, a child of six; a bugle, a cornet and a bassoon are laid in a corner, and two or three boys stand near.)
Sergeant George. Now, Archy, give the cadence in slow time. (To the squad.) Slow—march. (They march some thirty paces.) Squad—halt. (They halt, many of them out of line.) Keep your dressing. Steps like those would leave some of you half behind on a long march. Right about face—two—three. That's better. Slow—march. (They march.) Squad—halt. (They all bring up into line.) That's better. No hangers back with foe in front. Left about face—two—three. Keep up your heads. By the right—dress. Stand easy. Fall in, the band. We'll try the music.
(The band falls in, three little fellows have fifes, two elder ones flutes, one a flageolet; the owners of the cornet, bugle and bassoon take up their instruments, and a short, stout fellow has a trombone.)
Sergeant George (to the band). Now show your loyalty, "The King! God bless him."
[They play, the squad saluting.
Sergeant George (to band.) That's very well, but mind your time. (To the squad.) Now you shall march to music. (To the band.) Boys, play—"The Duke of York's March." (To the squad.) Squad—attention. Quick march. (They march.) Squad—halt.
[At a signal, the band ceases playing.
Yes, that's the way to meet your country's foes.
If you were Yankee lads you'd have to march to this
(
he takes a flageolet)
. Quick—march.
(Plays Yankee Doodle with equal cleverness and spite, travestying both phrase and expression in a most ludicrous manner until the boys find it impossible to march for laughter; the Sergeant is evidently delighted with the result.)
Ho! Ho! That's how you march to "Yankee Doodle."
'Tis a fine tune! A grand, inspiring tune,
Like "Polly put the Kettle on," or
"Dumble-dum-deary." Can soldiers march to that?
Can they have spirit, honour, or do great deeds
With such a tune as that to fill their ears?
Mrs. Secord. The Sergeant's bitter on the foe, I think.
Widow. He is, but can you wonder? Hounded out
When living peaceably upon his farm.
Shot at, and threatened till he takes a side,
And then obliged to fly to save his life,
Losing all else, his land, his happy home,
His loving wife, who sank beneath the change,
Because he chose the rather to endure
A short injustice, than belie his blood
By joining England's foes. He went with Moody.
Mrs. Secord. Poor fellow! Those were heavy times, like these.
Sergeant George. Now boys, the grand new tune, "Britannia Rules the Waves," play con spirito, that means heart! mind! soul! as if you meant it.
(He beats time, and adds a note of the drum at proper points, singing the chorus with much vigour and emphasis. Mrs. Secord betrays much emotion, and when the tune is begun for the third verse, she hastily closes the window.)
Shut, shut it out, I cannot bear it, Ellen,
It shakes my heart's foundations! Let me go.
Widow. Nay, but you're soon upset. If you must go,
Your bonnet's on my bed. I'll get a bite
Of something for you on the road.
[She busies herself in filling a little basket with refreshment, and offers MRS. SECORD cake and wine.
Here, eat a bit, and drink a sup of wine,
It's only currant; the General's got a keg
I sent, when stores were asked; James Coffin's good;
He always sends poor Ned, or Jack, or Dick,—
When commissariat's low; a mother's heart,
A widowed mother, too, he knows, sore longs
To see her lads, e'en if she willing sends
Them all to serve the King. I don't forget him
Morning and night, and many a time between.
No wine? Too soon? Well, take this drop along.
There's many a mile where no fresh water is,
And you'll be faint—
[She bursts into tears.
Good lan', I cannot bear to see you go.
Mrs. Secord. Nay, sister, nay, be calm!
Send me away light-hearted,
[Kisses her.
I trust in God,
As you for your dear lads. Shew me the way
To gain the woods unseen by friend or foe,
The while these embryo soldiers are engaged.
Widow. I'll go with you a mile or two.
Mrs. Secord. No, no.
It might arouse suspicion.
[She opens the door, and the WIDOW SECORD joins her.
Widow. Times indeed
When every little act has some to watch!
[Points to a tree.
You see yon oak just by the little birch—
Mrs. Secord. I do.
Widow. There is a little path leads down
To a small creek, cross that, and keep the sun
Behind you half a mile, and then you strike
The bush, uncleared and wild. Good God, to think—
Mrs. Secord. Think not, but pray, and if a chance occurs
Send aid to poor Fitzgibbon. Little help
Just in the nick of time oft turns the scale
Of fortune. God bless you, dear! Good bye.
[They embrace with tears. Exit MRS. SECORD.
SCENE 2.—A beautiful glade.
Enter MRS. SECORD.—After scanning the spot searchingly, she seats herself on a fallen trunk.
Mrs. Secord. This spot is surely safe; here I will rest,
For unaccustomed service tires my limbs,
And I have travelled many a weary rood
More than a crow-line measures; ups and downs
Absorb so many steps that nothing add
To distance. Faint am I, too, and thirsty.
Hist! hist! ye playful breezes that do make
Melodious symphonies and rippling runs
Among the pines and aspens, hear I not
A little tinkling rill, that somewhere hides
Its sweet beneficence 'mid ferns and moss?
[She rises and looks about.
Ay, here it is: a tiny brilliancy
That glances at the light, as careful, still,
To keep the pure translucency that first
It caught from Heaven. Give me, oh give, sweet rill,
A few cool drops to slake my parching throat.
Fair emblem truly thou of those meek hearts
That thread the humblest haunts of suffering earth
With Christ-like charities, and keep their souls
Pure and untaint, by Heavenly communings.
[She reseats herself, and contemplates the scene.
O this is beautiful! Here I could lie—
Were earth a myth and all her trials nought—
And dream soft nothings all a summer's day.
In this fair glade were surely celebrate
The nuptials of the year: and for her gift,
Fair Flora, lightly loitering on the wing
Of Zephyrus, tossed all her corbel out,
Filling the air with bloom.
From yonder copse,
With kindling eye and hasty step, emerged
The gladsome Spring, with leafy honours crowned,
His following a troop of skipping lambs:
And o'er yon hill, blushing for joy, approached
His happy bride, on billowy odours borne,
And every painted wing in tendance bent.
Procession beautiful! Yet she how fair!—
The lovely Summer, in her robes of blue,
Bedecked with every flower that Flora gave,—
Sweet eglantine and meek anemone,
Bright, nodding columbine and wood-star white,
Blue violets, like her eyes, and pendant gems
Of dielytra, topaz-tipped and gold,
Fragrant arbutus, and hepatica,
With thousands more. Her wreath, a coronet
Of opening rose-buds twined with lady-fern;
And over all, her bridal-veil of white,—
Some soft diaph'nous cloudlet, that mistook
Her robes of blue for heaven.—
And I could dream
That, from his lofty throne beholding,
Great Sol, on wings of glowing eve, came down
In gracious haste, to bless the nuptials.
(
She pauses
.) And shall this land,
That breathes of poesy from every sod,
Indignant throb beneath the heavy foot
Of jeering renegade? at best a son
His mother blushes for—shall he, bold rebel
Entwine its glories in defiant wreath
Above his boastful brow, and flaunt it in
Her face, rejoicing in her woe? No! No!
This priceless gem shall ever deck her crown,
And grace its setting with a ray more pure
For that, nor flood, nor fire, can flaw its heart.
Yes, Canada, thy sons, at least, maintain
The ancient honour of their British blood,
In that their loyalty contracts no stain
From proffered gifts or gold.
But I must on. I may not loiter, while
So much depends on me.
(She rises to proceed, and at the first step a rattlesnake rears up at her, hissing and springing its rattles. She recoils in fear, but remembering the cowardly nature of the creatures, throws sticks at it, and it glides swiftly away.)
Vile reptile!
Base as vile, and cowardly as base;
A straight descendant thou of him, methinks,
Man's ancient foe, or else his paraphrase.
Is there no Eden that thou enviest not?
No purity thou would'st not smirch with gall?
No rest thou would'st not break with agony?
Aye, Eve, our mother-tongue avenges thee,
For there is nothing mean, or base, or vile,
That is not comprehended in the name
Of SNAKE!
[Exit MRS. SECORD.
SCENE 3—A thick wood through which runs a forest path, leading to a high beech ridge.
Enter MRS. SECORD, walking as quickly as the underbrush will allow.
Mrs. Secord. How quiet are the woods!
The choir of birds that daily ushers in
The rosy dawn with bursts of melody,
And swells the joyful train that waits upon
The footsteps of the sun, is silent now,
Dismissed to greenwood bowers. Save happy cheep
Of callow nestling, that closer snugs beneath
The soft and sheltering wing of doting love,—Like
croon of sleeping babe on mother's breast—No
sound is heard, but, peaceful, all enjoy
Their sweet siesta on the waving bough,
Fearless of ruthless wind, or gliding snake.
So peaceful lies Fitzgibbon at his post,
[!-- Begin Page 42 --] Nor dreams of harm. Meanwhile the foe
Glides from his hole, and threads the darkling route,
In hope to coil and crush him.
Ah, little recks he that a woman holds
The power to draw his fangs!
And yet some harm must come, some blood must flow,
In spite of all my poor endeavour.
O War, how much I hate thy wizard arts,
That, with the clash and din of brass and steel,
O'erpowers the voice of pleading reason;
And with thy lurid light, in monstrous rays
Enfolds the symmetry of human love,
Making a brother seem a phantom or a ghoul!
Before thy deadly scowl kind peace retires,
And seeks the upper skies.
O, cruel are the hearts that cry "War!" "War!"
As if War were an angel, not a fiend;
His gilded chariot, a triumphal car,
And not a Juggernauth whose wheels drop gore;
His offerings, flowers and fruit, and chaplets gay,
And not shrieks, tears, and groans of babes and women.
And yet hath War, like Juggernauth, a hold,
A fascination, for humanity,
That makes his vot'ries martyrs for his sake.
Even I, poor weakling, march in keeping-time
To that grand music that I heard to-day,
Though children played it, and I darkly feel
Its burden is resistance physical.
'Tis strange that simple tones should move one so!
What is it, what, this sound, this air, this breath
The wind can blow away,
Nor most intricate fetters can enchain?
What component of being doth it touch
That it can raise the soul to ecstasy,
Or plunge it in the lowest depth of horror?
Freeze the stopt blood, or send it flowing on
In pleasant waves?
[!-- Begin Page 43 --] Can draw soft tears, or concentrate them hard
To form a base whereon the martyr stands
To take his leap to Heaven?
What is this sound that, in Niagara's roar
Brings us to Sinai;
Or in the infant's prayer to Him, "Our Father?"
That by a small inflection wakes the world,
And sends its squadroned armies on
To victory or death;
Or bids it, peaceful, rest, and grow, and build?
That reassures the frighted babe; or starts
The calm philosopher, without a word?
That, in the song of little bird speaks glee;
Or in a groan strikes mortal agony?
That, in the wind, brings us to shipwreck, death.
And dark despair;
Or paints us blessed islands far from care or pain?
Then what is sound?
The chord it vibrates with its magic touch
Is not a sense to man peculiar,
An independent string formed by that breath
That, breathed into the image corporate,
Made man a living soul.
No, for all animate nature owns
Its sovereign power. Brutes, birds, fish, reptiles, all
That breathe, are awed or won by means of sound.
Therefore, it must be of the corporate, corporeal
And, if so, why then the body lives again,
Despite what sceptics say; for sound it is
Will summon us before that final bar
To give account of deeds done in the flesh.
The spirit cannot thus be summoned,
Since entity it hath not sound can strike.
Let sceptics rave! I see no difficulty
That He, who from primordial atoms formed
A human frame, can from the dust awake it
Once again, marshal the scattered molecules
[!-- Begin Page 44 --] And make immortal, as was Adam.
This body lives! Or else no deep delight
Of quiring angels harping golden strings;
No voice of Him who calls His children home;
No glorious joining in the immortal song
Could touch our being
But how refined our state!
How changed! Never to tire or grow distraught,
Or wish for rest, or sleep, or quietude,
But find in absence of these earthly needs
A truer Heaven.
O might I rest even now!
These feet grow painful, and the shadows tell
Of night and dark approaching, my goal
An anxious distance off.
[She gazes round.
I'll rest awhile,
For yonder height will tax my waning strength,
And many a brier all beautiful with bloom
Hides many a thorn that will dispute my path
Beneath those ancient beeches.
(She seats herself, and having removed her bonnet, partakes of the refreshment brought from the mill. As she eats, a grieved look comes upon her face, and she wipes away a tear.)
The sun leans towards the west: O darlings mine,
E'en now, perchance, ye sit in order round
The evening board, your father at the head,
And Polly in my place making his tea,
While he pretends to eat, and cheats himself.
And thou, O husband, dearest, might I lay
My, weary head as oft upon thy breast!—
But no (
she rises
), I dare not think—there is above
A Love will guard me, and, O blessed thought,
Thee, too, and they our darlings.
[She proceeds towards the beech ridge, but is stayed at the foot by a rapid-running stream.
Nor bridge, nor stone, nor log, how shall I cross?
Yon o'erturned hemlock, whose wide-spreading root
Stands like a wattled pier from which the bridge
Springs all abrupt and strait, and hangs withal
So high that hardihood itself looks blank—
I scarce may tempt, worn as I am, and spent.
And on the other bank, the great green head
Presents a wilderness of tangled boughs
By which would be a task, indeed, to reach
The ground. Yet must I try. Poor hands, poor feet,
This is rough work for you, and one small slip
Would drop me in the stream, perchance to drown.
Not drown! oh, no, my goal was set by Heaven.
Come, rally all ye forces of the will,
And aid me now! Yon height that looms above
Is yet to gain before the sun gets low.
(She climbs the hemlock root and reaches the trunk, across which she crawls on her hands and knees, and at last finds herself some yards up the beech ridge. After arranging her torn and dishevelled clothing she proceeds up the ridge, at the top of which she encounters a British sentry, who challenges.)
Sentry. Who goes there?
Mrs. Secord. A friend.
Sentry. What friend?
Mrs. Secord. To Canada and Britain.
Sentry. Your name and errand.
Mrs. Secord. My name is Secord—Captain Secord's wife,
Who fought at Queenston;—and my errand is
To Beaver Dam to see Fitzgibbon,
And warn him of a sortie from Fort George
To move to-night. Five hundred men, with guns,
And baggage-waggons for the spoil, are sent.
For, with such force, the enemy is sure
Our stores are theirs; and Stoney Creek avenged.
Sentry. Madam, how know you this?
Mrs. Secord. I overheard
Some Yankee soldiers, passing in and out
With all a victor's license of our hearths,
Talk of it yesternight, and in such wise
No room for doubt remained. My husband wished
[!-- Begin Page 46 --] To bear the news himself, but is disabled yet
By those two wounds he got at Queenston Heights,
And so the heavy task remained with me,
Much to his grief.
Sentry. A heavy task indeed.
How got you past their lines?
Mrs. Secord. By many wiles;
Those various arts that times like these entail.
Sentry. And then how got you here?
Mrs. Secord. I left my home
At daybreak, and have walked through the deep woods
The whole way since I left St. David's Mill.
Sentry. 'Tis past belief, did not your looks accord.
And still you have a weary way to go,
And through more woods. Could I but go with you,
How gladly would I! Such deed as yours
Deserves more thanks than I can give. Pass, friend,
All's well.
[MRS. SECORD passes the Sentry, who turns and walks with her.
Mrs. Secord. There's naught to fear, I hope, but natural foes,
Lynxes or rattlesnakes, upon my way.
Sentry. There are some Mohawks ambushed in the wood,
But where I cannot quite point out; they choose
Their ground themselves, but they are friends, though rough,—
Some of Kerr's band, Brant's son-in-law. You'll need
To tell the chief your errand should you cross him.
Mrs. Secord. Thanks: for I rather fear our red allies.
Is there a piquet?
Sentry. No, not near me; our men are all too few—
A link goes to and fro 'twixt me and quarters,
And is but just now left (he turns sharp about).
My limit this—
Yonder your road (he points to the woods).
God be wi' you. Good-bye.
Mrs. Secord. Good-bye, my friend.
[Exit MRS. SECORD.
Sentry. A bold, courageous deed!
A very woman, too, tender and timid.
That country's safe whose women serve her cause
With love like this. And blessed, too, it is,
In having such for wives and mothers.
SCENE 4.—The forest, with the sun nearly below the horizon, its rays illuminate the tops of the trees, while all below is dark and gloomy. Bats are on the wing, the night-hawk careers above the trees, fire-flies flit about, and the death-bird calls.
Enter MRS. SECORD, showing signs of great fatigue.
Mrs. Secord. Gloomy, indeed, and weird, and oh, so lone!
In such a spot and hour the mind takes on
Moody imaginings, the body shrinks as'twere,
And all the being sinks into a sea
Of deariness and doubt and death.
[The call of the death-bird is heard.
Thou little owl, that with despairing note
Dost haunt these shades, art thou a spirit lost,
Whose punishment it is to fright poor souls
With fear of death?—if death is to be feared,
And not a blank hereafter. The poor brave
Who answers thee and hears no call respond,
Trembles and pales, and wastes away and dies
Within the year, thee making his fell arbiter.
Poor Indian! Much I fear the very dread
Engendered by the small neglectful bird,
Brings on the fate thou look'st for.
So fearless, yet so fearful, do we all,
Savage and civil, ever prove ourselves;
So strong, so weak, hurt by a transient sound,
Yet bravely stalking up to meet the death
We see.
[A prolonged howl is heard in the distance.
The wolves! the dreadful wolves! they've scented me.
O whither shall I fly? no shelter near;
No help. Alone! O God, alone!
[She looks wildly round for a place to fly to. Another howl is heard.
O Father! not this death, if I must die,
My task undone, 'tis too, too horrible!
[Another howl as of many wolves, but at a distance; she bends to listen, her hand upon her heart.
Be still, wild heart, nor fill my list'ning ears
With thy deep throbs.
[The howl of the wolves is again heard, but faintly.
Thank God, not me they seek!
Some other scent allures the ghoulish horde.
On, on, poor trembler! life for life it is,
If I may warn Fitzgibbon.
[She steps inadvertently into a little pool, hastily stoops and drinks gladly.
Oh blessed water! To my parched tongue
More precious than were each bright drop a gem
From far Golconda's mine; how at thy touch
The parting life comes back, and hope returns
To cheer my drooping heart!
(She trips and falls, and instantly the Indian war-whoop resounds close at hand, and numbers of braves seem to spring from the ground, one of whom approaches her as she rises with his tomahawk raised.)
Indian. Woman! what woman want?
Mrs. Secord (leaping forward and seizing his arm). O chief, no spy am I, but friend to you
And all who love King George and wear his badge.
All through this day I've walked the lonely woods
To do you service. I have news, great news,
To tell the officer at Beaver Dam.
This very night the Long Knives leave Fort George
To take him by surprise, in numbers more
[!-- Begin Page 49 --] Than crows on ripening corn. O help me on!
I'm Laura Secord, Captain Secord's wife,
Of Queenstown; and Tecumseh, your great chief,
And Tekoriogea are our friends.
Chief. White woman true and brave, I send with you
Mishe-mo-qua, he know the way and sign,
And bring you safe to mighty chief Fitzgibbon.
Mrs. Secord. O thanks, kind chief, and never shall your braves
Want aught that I can give them.
Chief (to another). Young chief, Mish-e-mo-qua, with woman go,
And give her into care of big white chief.
She carry news. Dam Long-Knife come in dark
To eat him up.
Mishe-mo-qua. Ugh! rascal! dam!
[Exeunt MISHE-MO-QUA and MRS. SECORD.