ACT III
SCENE 1.—Decau's house, a stone edifice of some pretensions. The parlour, with folding doors which now stand a little apart. A sentry is visible, on the other side of them. The parlour windows are barricaded within, but are set open, and a branch of a climbing rose with flowers upon it, swings in. The sun is setting, and gilds the arms that are piled in one corner of the room. A sword in its scabbard lies across the table, near which, in an arm-chair, reclines Lieutenant Fitzgibbon, a tall man of fine presence; in his right hand, which rests negligently on the back of the chair, he holds a newspaper of four pages, "The Times," from which he has been reading. Several elderly weather-beaten non-commissioned officers and privates, belonging to the 49th, 104th, and 8th regiments, together with a few militiamen and two cadets share the society of their superior officer, and all are very much at their ease both in appointments and manner, belts and stocks are unloosed, and some of the men are smoking.
Lieut. Fitzgibbon. 'Tis true, it seems, and yet most horrible;
More than five hundred thousand fighting men
Crossed with him o'er the front, and not a tenth
Remains. Rather than let him find a place
For winter quarters, two hundred thousand
Happy families had to forsake their homes
In dead of winter, and of the ancient seat
Of Russian splendour, Rotopschin made a pyre,
A blazing pyre of all its precious things:
Moscow is burned.
First Sergeant. So Boney could but toast his freezing toes
And march back home again: Fine glory that!
Fitzgibbon. Sad waste of precious lives for one man's will.
But this mishap will seal his fate. The Czar
Will see his interest is a strong alliance,
And all the Powers will prove too great a match,
Even for Buonaparte.
Second Sergeant. Where is he now, Lieutenant?
Fitzgibbon. In Paris, plotting again, I see; or was
Nine weeks ago.
First Private. Yon news coom quick.
[!-- Begin Page 51 --] Now when I were a bairn, that's forty year sin',
We heard i' York 'at Merriky refused
To pay the taxes, just three munth's arter;
An' that wur bonnie toime, fur then t'coaäch
Tuk but foive daäies ti mak' t' hull waai' doon,
Two hunner moile, fra Lunnon.
Fitzgibbon (still scanning the newspaper).
Well, Jimmy, here's a man, one Bell,
Of Greenock, can send a boat by steam
Against the wind and tide, and talks with hope
Of making speed equal to both.
He's tried it on the Clyde, so we may look
For news from England in a month, ere long.
First Private. Na, na, sir; noo doant 'e pooak fun at me!
Iver he doos ma' I go hang. Why neist
They scatterbrain 'ull mayhap send a shep
Jest whear tha' loike wi'oot a win' at all.
Or promise till 't. 'Twere pity Nelson, noo,
He'd noan o' sech at Copenháagen
Mebbe tha' cu'd ha' gott tha' grunded sheps
Afloat, an gett moor men to fe'ht them Dáans.
Fitzgibbon. The fewer men the greater glory, Jim.
Why, man, he got his title by that fight.
Second Sergeant. And well deserved it! A finer man
Never trod deck, sailor or officer;
His voice gave courage, as his eye flashed fire.
We would have died for him, and he for us;
And when the fight was done he got our rights,
Or tried at it. More than old Parker did.
First Sergeant. Parker was rich, and so forgot the poor,
But Nelson forgot none.
Second Private. He was cliver, too. Dash't! how I laughed,
All i' my sleeve o' course. The fight was hot,
And getting hotter, for, gad, them Danes can fight!
And quite a quarter o' the ships was stuck,
The Admiral's among 'em. So Nelson held
The squadron at command. Up comes the word,
[!-- Begin Page 52 --] "The signal Thirty-nine is out, sir." Nelson turns,
His stump a-goin' as his arm was used
Afore he lost it, meets the officer, as says,
"Sir, Thirty-nine is out, shall I repeat it?"
"No, sir; acknowledge it." Then on he goes.
Presently he calls out, "What's flying now?"
"The same, sir." So he takes his glass
And puts it to his eye, his blind eye, mind you,
An' says he, "No signal can I see. No,
Ne'er a one." Winking to Ferguson, says he,
"I've but one eye, and may be blind sometimes.
What! strike off now and lose the day? Not so:
My signal keep for 'Closer battle,' flying.
That's how I'll answer. Confound the signal!
Nail mine to the mast." He won.
First Militiaman. Just touch and go for hanging, that.
Fitzgibbon. Success ne'er saw a scaffold, Jeremy.
A Cadet. Fine-looking fellow Nelson-was, I guess?
First Sergeant. To look at? No, a little, thin, pale man
With a long queue, one arm, and but one eye,
But that a blazer!
Second Militiaman. These little uns has lots o' spunk:
Boney's a little un, I've heerd.
First Private. Just so: and Wellington ain't big.
Fitzgibbon (rising and drawing himself to his full height).
Come, boys, you're getting personal. See me!
If none but little men may win renown,
I hope I'm two in one, for your sakes.
And you forget the lion-hearted Brock.
All (interrupting him). No! no! no!
Fitzgibbon. A man of height exceeding any here,
And yet whose alt of metred inches
Nobly enlarged to full, fair, Saxon mould,
And vested in the blazonments of rule,
Shewed not so kingly to the obeisant sight
As was his soul. Who than ye better knew
His bravery; his lofty heroism;
[!-- Begin Page 53 --] His purity, and great unselfish heart?
Nature in him betrayed no niggard touch
Of corporate or ethereal. Yet I yield
That men of lesser mould in outward form
Have been as great in deeds of rich renown.
But then, I take it, greatness lies not in
The flesh, but in the spirit. He is great
Who from the quick occasion of the time
Strikes out a name. And he is also great
Who, in a life-long struggle, throws the foe,
And binds on hoary locks the laurel crown.
Each is a high exemplar.
One with concentrate vigour strikes a blow
That rings around the world; the other draws
The world round him—his mighty throes
And well-contested standpoints win its praise
And force its verdict, though bleak indifference—
A laggard umpire—long neglect his post,
And often leaves the wrestler's best unnoted,
Coming but just in time to mark his thews
And training, and so decides: while the loud shock
Of unexpected prowess starts him aghast,
And from his careless hand snatches the proud award.
But mark me, men, he who is ever great
Has greatness made his aim—
The sudden blow or long-protracted strife
Yields not its secret to the untrained hand.
True, one may cast his statue at a heat,
But yet the mould was there;
And he who chips the marble, bit by bit,
Into a noble form, sees all the while
His image in the block.
There are who make a phantom of their aim—
See it now here, now there, in this, in that,
But never in the line of simple duty;
Such will accomplish nothing but their shame:
For greatness never leaves that thin, straight mark;
[!-- Begin Page 54 --] And, just as the pursuit diverges from it,
Greatness evanishes, and notoriety
Misleads the suitor. I'd have you think of this.
All. Aye, aye, sir.
Fitzgibbon. Order the lights, for darkness falls apace,
And I must write.
[Exit First Private.
Fitzgibbon (cutting the newspaper and handing the halves to the sergeants). There, read to the rest, and let me have them back when done with.
Enter a Soldier with lights.
[A voice is heard in the next room, beginning to sing.
Who's that?
First Private. It's Roaring Bill, sir; shall I stop him?
Fitzgibbon. No; let him sing.
It cheers our loneliness, and does us good.
First Sergeant. Another of his own, I guess; homespun
And rough, like country cloth.
Fitzgibbon. Hush! what is that he says?
[A Cadet gently pushes one of the folding doors a little wider open.
Roaring Bill. 'Tis but a doleful ditty, boys,
With ne'er a chorus; yet I'll be bound
You'll hardly quarrel with it.
A Comrade. Let's have it, Bill; we ain't red Injuns,
As likes palaver.
Roaring Bill—
SONG.
| October blasts had strown the wreaths that erstwhile hung so
gay, Above the brows of Queenston Heights where we impatient lay; Niagara fretted at our feet, as chafing at his post, And impotence to turn the fleets that bore the aggressive host. And gray the dawn and cold the morn of Rensselaer's attack, But warm and true the hearts, though few, that leapt to beat him back. "On, Forth-ninth! On, volunteers! Give tongue, ye batteries twain!" Bold Dennis spake: the guns boomed forth, and down he rushed amain. [!-- Begin Page 55 --] They sink! They fly! They drop down stream.—Ah, too delusive sight! A long-abandoned path they find, and gain the wooded height. The batteries now must guard the shore—above, our struggle lies; But down they pour, like surging flood, that skill and strength defies. Down, down, they press us, inch by inch, beyond the village bound, And there, o'erwhelmed, but not o'ercome, we keep our sullen ground. Short time we stand. A ringing cheer proclaims our hero nigh; Our darling leader, noble Brock—hark to his gallant cry! "Follow me, boys!" the hero cries. We double to the wall— Waving his gleaming sword on high, he climbs, and follow all; Impetuous up the mountain side he strides in warlike glee, All heedless of the leaden hail that whistles from each tree: For on and up proud Victory lures—we touch her laurel crown— When by malign, deliberate aim the hero's stricken down. He falls! We fire, but ah, too late—the murderous work is done. No more that voice shall cheer us on, with "Vict'ry!" in its tone. He falls: nor word nor look may cheer young Jarvis' anxious quest; Among his stricken men he sinks, his hand but seeks his breast. O, Death, could none but him suffice thy cold, insatiate eye? Nor knewed'st thou how many there for him would gladly die! Nor lonely speeds the parting soul, nor lonely stands the bier— Two forms the bastion-tomb enfolds, two claim the soldier's tear. "Avenge the General!" was the cry. "AVENGE!" McDonell cries, And, leading madly up the Height, McDonell falls and dies. |
[Several of the men pass their hands over their eyes; MR. JARVIS goes to the open window, as if to observe something without.
An 8th man. A mournful ditty to a mournful tune,
Yet not unworthy of the heroic theme,
Nor of a soldier's heart.
Mr. Jarvis (in a low voice). Indeed, you're right.
I thank the singer for his memories,
Though sad to me, who caught Brock's latest breath.
Fitzgibbon. I did not think there had been such a stroke
Of genius in the lad. (Another voice.) But who's this, now?
Second Cadet. It's young Jack Kelley, sir; he has a voice,
And emulates old Bill.
Jack Kelley (with the airs of an amateur.) Ugh! ugh! I'm hoarse.
[!-- Begin Page 56 --] Now mind the coal-box, byes, and sing it up.
"The Jolly Midshipman's" the tune.
SONG.
|
I. It was a bold Canadian boy That loved a winsome girl; And he was bold as ancient knight, She, fair as day's own pearl. And to the greenwood they must go, To build a home and name, So he clasped hands with Industry, For fortune, wealth and fame. |
CHORUS
(In which all join, the leader beating time upon his knees with his fists.)
| For fortune, wealth and fame, For fortune, wealth and fame; So he clasped hands with Industry, For fortune, wealth and fame. II. And when the jocund Spring came in, He crowned the wedded pair. And sent them forth with hearts elate Their wildwood home to share. For he had built a snug log-house, Beneath a maple tree; And his axe had cleared a wide domain, While store of goods spun she. CHORUS. While store of goods spun she, While store of goods spun she, And his axe had cleared a wide domain, While store of goods spun she. III. The husband whistles at his plough, The wife sings at her wheel, The children wind the shrilly horn That tells the ready meal. And should you roam the wide world o'er, No happier home you'll see, Than this abode of loving toil Beneath the maple tree. [!-- Begin Page 57 --] CHORUS. Beneath the maple tree, Beneath the maple tree, Than this abode of loving toil Beneath the maple tree. |
A 49th man. Hurrah, Jack! that's a good tune,
Let's have the chorus again.
All—
| Beneath the maple tree, Beneath the maple tree, Than this abode of lov— |
[The Sentry challenges, and a Corporal enters and salutes FITZGIBBON.
Fitzgibbon. Well, Corporal.
Corporal. Sir, here is Mishe-mo-qua and a woman.
They say they've news, and wish to speak with you.
Fitzgibbon. Then, Corporal, show them in.
[Exit Corporal.
Enter MRS. SECORD and the Indian Chief, who salutes LIEUT. FITZGIBBON.
Several Militiamen (in surprise, aside to each other.) 'Tis Mrs. Secord, Captain Secord's wife;
What can her errand be? So tired, too,
And in rags.
Mrs. Secord (courtesying). You are the Captain, sir?
Fitzgibbon. At your service.
Mrs. Secord. I bring you news of great importance, sir.
Fitzgibbon. I am indebted, madam, for what I see
Has been no common task. Be seated, pray.
[A Cadet places a chair.
Chief, will you also rest?
[He indicates a couch.
Mishe-mo-qua. No. Woman, she
Come far, to tell white chief great words.
Fitzgibbon. I thank her much.
Mrs. Secord. I came to say that General Dearborn tires.
Of his inaction, and the narrow space
Around his works, he therefore purposes
[!-- Begin Page 58 --] To fall upon your outpost here, to-night,
With an o'erwhelming force, and take your stores:
Fitzgibbon. Madam!
Mrs. Secord. Five hundred men, with some dragoons and guns,
Start e'en to-night, soon as the moon goes down;
Lieutenant-Colonel Boerstler in command.
A train of waggons, too, is sent for spoil.
Fitzgibbon. And may I ask on what authority
To trust such startling news? I know you not.
Mrs. Secord. My name is Secord, I'm Captain Secord's wife,
Who fought at Queenston Heights, and there received
The wounds that leave him now a helpless cripple.
Some here may know him.
Fitzgibbon. I remember now.
Mrs. Secord. We live within the Yankee lines, and hence
By victor's right our home is free to them.
Last night a sergeant and his new-changed guard
Came in and asked for supper; a boy and girl
I left to wait on them, seeing the table set
With all supplies myself, and then retired.
But such their confidence; their talk so loud
And free, I could not help but hear some words
That raised suspicion; then I listened close
And heard, 'mid gibe and jest, the enterprise
That was to flout us; make the Loyalist
A cringing slave to sneering rebels; make
The British lion gnash his teeth with rage;—
The Yankee, hand-on-hip, guffawing loud
The while. At once, my British blood was up,
Nor had I borne their hated presence more,
But for the deeper cause. My husband judged
As I did, but his helpless frame forbade
His active interference, so I came,
For well we knew your risk, warning denied.
Fitzgibbon. Alone? You surely did not come alone?
Mrs. Secord. Sir, I have walked the whole way through the woods,
[!-- Begin Page 59 --] For fear of spies, braving all other foes.
Nor, since at early morn I left St. David's Mill,
Until I met your sentry on the ridge,—
Who begged me tell you so, and said "all's well,"—
Spoke I, or saw, a soul. Since then, the chief,
Whose senior sent him with me for a guide,
Has been my kind protector to your post.
Fitzgibbon (to the chief). I thank you, Mishe-mo-qua, and your chief.
(To Mrs. Secord, bowing.) But you, oh; madam, how shall I thank you?
You have, indeed, performed a woman's part,
A gentle deed; yet at expense of more
Than woman's fitting means. I am not schooled
In courtly phrases, yet may I undertake
To thank you heartily, not on our part
Alone, but in our good King George's name,
For act so kind achieved. Knew he your care
For his brave men—I speak for those around—
Of whom some fought for him at Copenhagen,
He would convey his thanks, and the Queen's, too—
Who loves all nobleness—in better terms
Than I, his humble servant. Affliction
Leaves him in our hands to do him justice;
And justice 'tis, alike to him and you,
To thank you in his name, and in the Regent's.
The Soldiers. Hurray! hurray! hurray!
[They toss up their caps.
Mrs. Secord. Sir, you make quite too much of my poor service,
I have but done my duty; and I beg
Let me not interrupt your movements now:
I would not be an obstacle across
The path I made.
Fitzgibbon. You add an obligation, madam.
[At a signal the men from the next room file in.
(To the men.) We've hot work coming, boys. Our good friend here
Has walked from Queenston, through the woods, this day,
To warn me that a sortie from Fort George
Is sent to take this post, and starts e'en now.
You, Cummings, mount—you know the way—and ride
With all your might, to tell De Haren this;
He lies at Twelve-Mile Creek with larger force
Than mine, and will move up to my support:
He'll see my handful cannot keep at bay
Five hundred men, or fight in open field.
But what strength can't accomplish cunning must—
I'll have to circumvent them.
[Exit CUMMINGS.
(To Mishe-mo-qua.) And you, chief,
What will you do? You've stood by me so long,
So faithfully, I count upon you now.
Mishe-mo-qua. White chief say true: we good King George's men.
My warriors yell! hide! shoot! hot bullet fly
Like dart of Annee-meekee.
We keep dam Long-Knife back. I go just now.
Fitzgibbon (handing the chief a twist of tobacco, which he puts into his girdle with a grunt of satisfaction). A Mohawk is my friend, and you are one.
[FITZGIBBON shakes hands with the Chief, who retires well pleased.
(To Mrs. Secord.) Madam, how may I serve you to secure
Your safety? Refreshment comes; but here
Is no protection in our present strait.
Mrs. Secord. I thank you, sir, but will not tax you more
Than some refreshment. I have friends beyond
A mile or two, with whom I'll stay to-night.
Fitzgibbon. I'll spare an escort; Mr. Jarvis here will—
[MRS. SECORD faints.
Poor soul! poor soul! she is exhaust indeed.
(The men run out and bring water, Fitzgibbon gets brandy from a buffet, and Mr. Jarvis unloosens her bonnet and collar. They bathe her hands with [ [!-- Begin Page 61 --] the spirit and sprinkle her face with the water, and at last MRS. SECORD sighs heavily.)
Fitzgibbon. She's coming to. Back, men; give her more air.
(MR. JARVIS and another Cadet support MRS. SECORD, while LIEUT. FITZGIBBON offers her coffee, into which he has poured a little brandy, feeding her with the spoon.)
An 8th man (aside). She'll never walk to reach her friends to-night.
A 49th man (to a comrade). Jack, thou an' me can do't. 'Tyent the fust time
We've swung a faintin' comrade 'twixt us two;
An' her's just like a babby. Fatch a pole
An' blanket, an' we'll carry her.
A Sergeant. You'll then be in the rear, for we're to move.
Second 49th man. We'll catch ye oop a foight'n'; its summat wuth
To await o' sech as she.
Fitzgibbon (to Mrs. Secord). Are you better now?
Mrs. Secord (trying to stand). I think I am. Oh, sir, I'm losing you
The time I tried to save! Pray leave me—
I shall be better soon, and I can find my way.
Fitzgibbon. Nay, be not anxious; we are quite prepared.
Sheathed though our claws may be, they're always sharp.
Pray drink again, nor fear the potent touch
That snatches back the life when the spent heart,
Oppressed by cruel tasks, as yours, can scarcely beat.
[MRS. SECORD drinks the coffee, and again rises, but can scarcely stand.
49th man (saluting). Sir, me an' Bill has here a hammock ready,
An' volunteers to see the lady safe.
Among her friends.
Mrs. Secord. But I can walk.
Fitzgibbon. Madam, you cannot. Let these carry you;
[!-- Begin Page 62 --] An honour I do grudge them. I shall move
With better heart knowing you cared for.
Mrs. Secord. I'll go at once—
Fitzgibbon. Men, bring your hammock hither.
(The hammock is brought, and MRS. SECORD is assisted into it by LIEUT. FITZGIBBON, who wraps a blanket round her. The men fall into line, and salute as she passes. At the door she offers her hand to FITZGIBBON.)
Mrs. Secord. Farewell, sir. My best thanks for all your goodness,
Your hospitality, and this, your escort;
You do me too much honour.
Fitzgibbon. Should we not
Show our respect for one has done so much
For us? We are your debtors, madam.
[He points to the sky, set thick with brilliant stars, the moon having already set.
See how the eyes of heaven look down on you,
And smile, in gentle approbation
Of a most gentle deed. I pray they light
You safely to your friends.
Mrs. Secord. And you to victory, sir. Farewell.
[FITZGIBBON bows.
[Exeunt MRS. SECORD and her escort.
Fitzgibbon (to the men who have crowded round the door, and are awaiting orders). Men, never forget this woman's noble deed.
Armed, and in company, inspirited
By crash of martial music, soldiers march
To duty; but she, alone, defenceless,
With no support but kind humanity
And burning patriotism, ran all our risks
Of hurt, and bloody death, to serve us men,
Strangers to her save by quick war-time ties.
Therefore, in grateful memory and kind return,
Ever treat women well.
Men. Aye, aye, sir.
Fitzgibbon. Now, then, for action. I need not say,
Men, do your duty. The hearts that sprung
To follow Nelson; Brock; have never failed.
I'm proud, my men, to be your leader now.
SCENE 2.—Morning twilight. A little wayside tavern at a cross-road.
Enter FITZGIBBON, reconnoitring.
Fitzgibbon. They must be pretty near by this time,
If they are come at all.
(Two American soldiers of the advanced guard rush out of the tavern and present their rifles. FITZGIBBON springs on them, and, seizing each man's weapon, crosses them in front of himself.)
Not yet, my friends.
[They struggle, and one of the Americans draws FITZGIBBON'S sword and is about to plunge it in his shoulder.
Enter a woman, the tavern-keeper.
Woman. Ye Yankee rogue! ye coward!
[She snatches the sword, and runs into the tavern with it.
Fitzgibbon. Take that! and that!
[He trips up one man, and knocks the other down, putting his foot on the man's breast.
Now, give me up your arms.
[They give up their arms.
Enter FITZGIBBON'S command.
Here, Sergeant, march them in and set a guard.
[They are marched into the tavern. Shots are heard.
Fitsgibbon. They're come! Quick—march, my lads.
SCENE 3.—The beech ridge. Frequent firing. The Indian war-whoop. Bugles sounding the advance.
Enter LIEUT. FITZGIBBON and COL. THOMAS CLARKE.
Fitzgibbon. The Mohawks have done well; and I am glad
To have your help, sir, too. What is your strength?
Clarke. But twenty, sir, all told.
Fitzgibbon. And I but thirty. Too few to fight such force
In open field. But Boerstler's lost his head:
Deluded by our calls, your fierce attack,
And Indian fighting—which to them has ghosts
Of their own raising—scalps, treachery, what not.
There is our chance: I mean to summon him
To a surrender.
Clarke (in great surprise). Sir!
Fitzgibbon. 'Tis a bold stroke, I grant, and if it fail
Why then I'll fight it out. Keep up the scare
Some moments longer, and we'll see.
Clarke. Good luck betide so brave a word;
I'll do my best.
[Exit COL. CLARKE.
Enter the American force in some confusion.
(FITZGIBBON sends forward a flag of truce; the bugles sound "Cease firing;" an officer advances from the American lines and FITZGIBBON goes forward to meet him.)
Fitzgibbon. Sir, with my compliments to your commander,
I am the leader of this large detachment,
Backed closely up by reinforcements
Larger still. Indians, our good allies,
Swarm in the woods around; and in your rear
A strong militia force awaits my orders:
Therefore, sir, to save a useless loss
Of brave men's lives, I offer you fair terms
Of full surrender.
American officer. I will report, sir,
To Colonel Boerstler.
[Exit.
Fitzgibbon (aside). And I will pray.
For after all in God's hand lies the day:
I've done the best I know.
Enter the American officer and an orderly.
American officer. Sir, with respect, our colonel bids me say
That, seeing fate and fortune both unite
To mar success, he'll rather save his men
By fair surrender, than waste their lives
In useless struggle. He commissions me
To act in drawing up the terms.
I am McDowell, captain of a troop.
Fitzgibbon (bowing). Your humble servant, sir. We'll try to please
Your colonel; rejoicing we have met a foe
Who knows the bravery of discretion.
Enter COL. CLARKE, CAPT. KERR, of the Indian contingent, and MISHE-MO-QUA.
(The British officers consult, and then invite CAPT. MCDOWELLto join them. A drum is brought, Major De Haren produces writing materials; and terms of capitulation are drawn up, which are read to CAPT. MCDOWELL.)
Fitzgibbon. Our terms we make as light as possible:
I hope you'll find them so, sir.
Capt. McDowell (after reading). Terms generous and honourable sir;
I thank you. A noble foe is always half a friend.
I'll carry them to Colonel Boerstler,
With your consent.
[FITZGIBBON bows.
[Exit CAPT. MCDOWELL.
Enter MAJOR DE HAREN, who hastens to greet LIEUT. FITZGIBBON.
Major De Haren. Why, what is this, Fitzgibbon, that I hear?
That with your little handful you have caught
Five hundred enemy? A very elephant!
Fitzgibbon. A strait like mine required some strategy.
De Haren. My dear, brave fellow, you have surely won
The golden epaulettes! How glad I am
[!-- Begin Page 66 --] I was not here before. Such tact! such skill!
You are a soldier born. But who comes hither?
Enter COL. BOERSTLER, CAPT. MCDOWELL and other American officers.
Fitzgibbon. These are the officers to sign our terms.
[The officers on both sides salute.
Boerstler (to Fitzgibbon). I thank you, sir, for honourable terms,
For vain it was to cope with force like yours.
But ne'er I thought to put my hand to such
A document.
[He takes up the pen.
Fitzgibbon. Fortune of war, sir, that we all may meet.
[Each officer signs the document in his order; MISHE-MO-QUA draws his totem—a bear—as his signature.
De Haren (to Col. Boerstler). Will you proceed on the third article?
Boerstler (to Capt. McDowell). Give you the order.
[Exit CAPT. MCDOWELL.
Fitzgibbon (to his men, who are drawn up across the road— De Haren's command forming their right and left wings). Forward—ten paces.
[Enter by companies the American force, who lay down their arms in front of the British officers and defile to the rear.
De Haren (to Fitzgibbon). A glorious day for you, Fitzgibbon;
For this fair Canada, and British arms.
Fitzgibbon. Yes, thanks to a brave woman's glorious deed.
[Exeunt.