‘SAVED BY A HORNET’S NEST.’
“I got the story just a few weeks ago, when I was out fishing on the Rushagornish with Dick Henderson. Near the shore we came upon a huge hornets’ nest suspended beneath a bush. Swayed by the common impulse of destructiveness, I suggested that we should set fire to the nest.
“‘No, indeed,’ said Dick. ‘If we attack the nest we deserve to get stung. Mr. Yellow Jacket is a self-respecting citizen, and will not trouble you unless you wantonly interfere with him. If he resents aggression fiercely, we cannot blame him for that, can we? Besides, a hornets’ nest is held sacred among us Hendersons.’
“‘You don’t mean to confess,’ I exclaimed, ‘that it symbolizes the spirit and temper of your family?’
“‘Not exactly,’ replied Dick. ‘But it certainly preserved the connection between flesh and spirit for our family at a very critical moment. My Grandfather Henderson owed his life to a nest of hornets at a time when he, a young man of twenty-two, was the sole representative of his line.’
“The trout were not rising, and the rapidly heating air persuaded to indolence. I stood my rod up in a bush, threw myself down in a shady spot, and remarked to Dick that he might as well tell me about his grandfather. This invitation elicited the following curious story:—
“It was during the war of 1812. The battles of Chrysler’s Farm and Chateauguay had not yet been fought, and the Canadians were in doubt as to the movements of the two American armies which were preparing to attack Montreal. They knew that General Wilkinson was at Sackett’s Harbor, making ready to descend the St. Lawrence; but in regard to General Hampton, who was advancing by way of Lake Champlain, information was much in demand.
“My grandfather, James Henderson, who knew the country between the St. Lawrence and Lake Champlain, volunteered to get the information. He had many friends on the American side of the line, most of whom, as he knew, heartily disapproved of this unnecessary struggle between the United States and England. On these he depended for help if he should get caught; and he really gave far too little heed to the nature of the risk he was running. Yet he took wise precautions, and played his part with discretion.
“With a ragged-looking horse and a shabby pedler’s wagon, and himself skilfully made up for the rôle of a country hawker, he was comparatively secure from recognition. Indeed, I have heard him boast that he made sales to some of his most intimate acquaintances, who never for an instant dreamed that it was Jim Henderson whom they were haggling with.
“All went prosperously until the very end of the adventure drew near. My grandfather was returning with the important information that Hampton’s objective point was the mouth of the Chateauguay River, whence he would cross the St. Lawrence, and descend upon Montreal from Lachine.
“At Smith’s Corners, a little rudimentary village about ten miles from the Canadian border, my grandfather stopped for a bite of dinner.
“Jake Smith, the landlord of the little inn, was a trusted friend; and to him my grandfather revealed himself in obedience to a sudden impulse. It was the first time on the whole journey that he had given the slightest clew to his true personality. Well for him that he yielded to this impulse, else even the friendly hornets’ nest, to which we are coming presently, would not have availed to save him.
“Jake Smith was a stirring fellow, who under ordinary circumstances would have liked nothing better than running a spy to earth; but when that spy was Jim Henderson, the case was different.
“My grandfather had stood his horse and wagon in on the spacious barn floor, and was having a wash in a little bedroom opening off the kitchen. The bedroom door was partly closed.
“Suddenly, through the crack of the door, he caught sight of a small party of American militiamen, at whose heels followed two huge brindled mastiffs, or part mastiffs, probably a cross between mastiff and bloodhound. Henderson, confident in his disguise, was just slipping on his coat with the idea of going out and speaking to the soldiers, when the leader’s voice, addressing the landlord at the kitchen door, arrested him.
“‘Where’s that pedler chap that drove in here a few minutes ago?’ inquired the officer, puzzled at seeing no sign of the wagon.
“‘What do you want of him?’ inquired the landlord with an air of interest.
“‘We’ll show you presently!’ said the officer. ‘And we’ll want you, too, if we catch you trying to shelter a spy! Where is he?’
“‘I don’t shelter no spies,’ growled Jake Smith ambiguously; ‘and I’d advise you to keep your jaw for your own men!”
“The officer was about to make an angry reply, but changed his mind.
“‘That pedler,’ said he firmly, ‘is a spy; and it is your duty to assist in his capture. Is he in this house?’
“Now, Smith knew better than to try to persuade the soldiers that Henderson had driven away. He saw they had certain knowledge of the spy’s presence. So he exclaimed:—
“‘A spy, is he? Well, I reckon you’ve about got him, then. He’s drove his team in on the barn floor, out of the sun, and most likely’—but the whole squad were off for the barn.
“‘To the woods! The cave!’ hissed Smith toward the little bedroom; and at the same instant my grandfather darted from the window, down behind the tall rows of pole-beans and a leafy bed of artichokes, and gained the cover of the woods which touched on the rear edge of the garden.
“He ran with desperate speed, following at first a well-beaten cattle-path that led straight into the woods. But he had small hope of escape. It was the glimpse he had got of those two great dogs that filled his soul with dismay.
“For the troops alone he would have cared little. He knew he could outrun most men, and the forest afforded innumerable hiding-places. But those dogs! With no weapon but his sheath-knife, he could hardly hope to overcome them without being himself disabled; and if he were to take refuge in a tree, they would just hold him there till their masters arrived to lead him off to an ignominious death.
“My grandfather concluded, however, that his only chance for escape lay in fighting the dogs. If he could kill them before the soldiers came up, he might possibly get away.
“But to make the most of this poor chance he must get deep into the woods, and lead the dogs a long distance ahead of the troops.
“He understood the sound tactics of dividing the enemy’s forces. He tightened his belt and ran on, snatching up by the way a stout stick which some one had intended for a cane.
“The cave of which Smith had spoken lay about three miles from the village. After following the cattle-path for perhaps half a mile, my grandfather turned a little to the right and plunged into the trackless forest. His long, nimble legs carried him swiftly over the innumerable obstructions of the forest floor.
“His ears were strained anxiously to catch the first deep baying that would tell him the dogs were on his scent. Every minute that the dreadful voices delayed was an addition to his little stock of hopes. If only he could reach the cave, his chances of victory over the dogs would be much increased; for the entrance to it was so small that only one of his assailants would be able to get in at a time.
“At last, when he had run about two miles, his breath failed him. He threw himself flat on his face on a bit of mossy ground beside a brook. As he lay there gasping, his mouth open, his eyes shut, suddenly along the resonant ground were borne to his ears the voices of the dogs.
“When he sprang to his feet he could no longer hear them; but he knew he must gain more time. Jumping into the brook he ran several hundred yards up-stream; then, seizing a long, overhanging branch, he swung himself well ashore, some ten feet clear of the bank.
“As he once more headed for the cave, he flattered himself, not without reason, that the dogs would lose some time before they picked up his scent again.
“The baying of the pursuers soon came near enough to be distinctly heard, and then grew in volume rapidly. At last it stopped; and he knew the dogs had reached the brook, and were hunting for the scent. Before that sinister music rose again on the stillness of the wilderness air, Henderson came in sight of the hillside wherein the cave lay hidden.
“Just as he was congratulating himself that he had now a good chance of escape, a thought occurred to him that dashed his hopes. ‘Why,’ said he to himself, ‘the dogs would most likely refuse to enter the cave!’ Seeing the smallness of the entrance, they would no doubt stay baying outside, keeping him like a rat in a hole until the soldiers should come and smoke him out.
“However, he decided to risk it. He could, at least, block the entrance with stones, and make some sort of fight at the last; or even there might be some other exit,—some fissure in the hill which he had never explored. At any rate, he was too much exhausted to run any farther.
“As he approached the low opening in the hillside a lot of hornets darted past his ears. Having a dread of hornets he glanced about nervously, and imagined at first they were denizens of his cave. But in a moment he saw the nest.
“It was an immense gray globular structure, hanging from the branch of a small fir-tree, at a height of about two feet from the ground. It was not more than five or six feet from the cave, and almost directly in front of it.
“Henderson was a man of resources; and he appreciated the fighting prowess of a well-stirred colony of hornets. He decided to enlist the colony in his defence.
“The hornets were taking no notice of him whatever, being intent on business of their own. Henderson took a long piece of string from his trousers pocket, and in the most delicate fashion possible made one end fast to the branch which supported the nest. Then, lying down flat on his face, he squirmed softly past without getting into collision with the insects, and crawled into the cave, carrying with him the other end of the string.
“Once safely inside, his first care was to grope around for a big stone or two. These he soon procured, and with their aid the entrance was blocked. Then he took off his coat.
“He laid his ear to the crevices in his barricade. The dogs were getting so near that he could hear now the crashing of their heavy forms as they bounded through the underbrush.
“Holding his coat ready to stop up, if necessary, the small openings he had left for observation, he began jerking sharply on the string which connected him with the hornets’ nest.
“He could hear the furious buzzing which instantly arose as the hornets swarmed forth to resent the disturbance. He could see how the air grew yellow all about the nest. But it did not occur to the angry insects to seek for their disturber in the cave.
“Henderson jerked again and yet again, and the enraged swarm grew thicker.
“At this moment the dogs came into view. Very deadly and inexorable they looked as they bounded along, heads low down, their dark, muscular bodies dashing the branches aside and bearing down the undergrowth.
“Now, realizing perhaps that they had run their prey to earth, they raised their heads and barked, in a tone very different from that of their baying. Unfalteringly they dashed straight upon the barricade; and one of them, as he sprang past, struck the nest a ruder shock than any that my grandfather’s string had been able to give it.
Saved by a Hornets’ Nest.—Page 313.
“In that same instant the exasperated hornets were upon the dogs. A sharp chorus arose of angry and frightened yelpings. Yet for a few seconds the brave brutes persisted in their efforts to force an entrance to my grandfather’s retreat. This gave the hornets a fair chance.
“They settled upon the animals’ eyes and ears and jaws, till flesh and blood—even dog flesh and blood—could endure the fiery anguish no longer. Both dogs rolled over and over, burrowing their noses in the moss, and trying with their paws to scrape off their bitter assailants. But the contest was too unequal.
“Presently both dogs stuck their tails between their legs, and darted off in mad panic through the woods. Gradually their yelpings died away.
“My grandfather then and there registered a vow that he would never again break up a hornets’ nest. He slackened the string till it lay loose and inconspicuous amid the moss, but he did not exactly care to go out and detach it from the branch.
“Then he lay down and rested, feeling pretty confident that the soldiers would not find their way to his retreat now that they were deprived of the assistance of the dogs. As for the dogs, he knew that their noses were pretty well spoiled for a day or two.
“That night, when he felt quite sure the hornets had gone to bed, my grandfather crept out of his refuge, stole softly past his little protectors without disturbing them to say farewell, and struck across the forest in the direction of the Canadian border. A little later the moon got up, and by her light he made good progress.
“Soon after daybreak he reached the banks of the Chateauguay, and about an hour later he fell in with a scouting-party of the Glengarry Fencibles, who took him to the headquarters of De Salaberry, the Canadian commander. As for the ragged old horse and the pedler’s wagon, they remained at Smith’s Corners, a keepsake for Jake Smith.”
“I think,” said Ranolf, “that’s a good enough yarn to go to bed on. I’m as sleepy as a June-bug.”
Upon this we all discovered that we were in the same condition as Ranolf. The exhilaration of the run down the Toledi, and the hard strain of the passage across Temiscouata, had tired us through and through. How delicious were our blankets that night at Détour du Lac!
CHAPTER IX.
THE LAST CAMP-FIRE.
We got away from Détour du Lac in the early morning, and reached the outlet, the head of the Madawaska River, after a brisk paddle of some eight miles. The run down the Madawaska was swift and easy,—a rapid current and a clear channel. What more could canoemen wish? Late in the afternoon we pitched tent on a woody hill half a mile above Edmundston. To signalize our return to civilization we visited the hotel and post-office, and then returned to camp for tea. The fire blazed right merrily that night, and to ward off melancholy thoughts we told stories as usual.
“Boys,” said Stranion, “I’ve saved for this last night in camp the one that I count choicest of all my yarns. The scene of it lies on those very waters which we have lately passed through!”
“Name?” demanded I, sharpening my pencil with a business air.
“Just—