On the eighth day Sam Barringford came back, thoroughly tired out by a tramp that had taken him over many miles of the territory covering the lake front.
“Didn’t see anybuddy but a couple o’ redskins,” he said. “They were old men and could tell nuthin’.”
“And you found no trace?” faltered Dave.
“Nary a trace, lad. It’s too bad, but it can’t be helped.” And Barringford’s voice almost broke in spite of his effort to control it.
Drilling was now going on every morning and afternoon, for it was felt that the Colonial militia must be brought up as far as possible to the standard of the royal troops. In the militia men were constantly coming and going, suiting their own convenience in spite of all the officers could do to restrain them.
“We’ll not be able to do much more this season,” remarked Barringford to Dave, one day. “It won’t be long before winter is on us and then the campaign will have to come to an end.”
One day there came the glorious news of Wolfe’s victory on the Plains of Abraham, followed almost immediately by the news that Quebec had been taken.
The soldiers went wild with excitement, and the officers did not attempt to restrain them. In the evening bonfires were lit and the general jollification lasted until the next morning.
“That is the end of French rule in America,” said Raymond. “Now if Amherst can only advance we’ll soon have the garlic-eaters on the run.” But, as already mentioned in these pages, Amherst’s advance was so slow that the storms of early winter drove his ships on Lake Champlain back and he was compelled to go into quarters for the season at Crown Point, leaving the British army at Quebec to take care of itself.
“I must write home and tell of this victory,” said Dave. “But—but—Henry——”