For several days nobody came near Henry outside of the guard who brought in the miserable prison fare, already mentioned by the grenadier and the New Hampshire ranger. It was certainly food scarcely fit to eat, and it was a whole day before the young soldier could touch it. But a keen appetite can overcome many objections, and at last he ate just enough to satisfy the intense craving of his stomach. Even the drinking water was poor, and, as Pity-All-Sinners Skinner said, hardly fit for washing.
On the Monday following Henry’s arrival at the post a messenger came in with some important dispatches. Following this there was a good deal of bustle and excitement, and soon some guards appeared and told the prisoners to get ready for a journey.
“Where are we going now?” asked Henry, but the guard addressed either could not, or would not, answer the question.
Chained together, hand-to-hand, the three were made to march from the fort. The foot soldiers of the French were already in the ranks and the prisoners were placed in their midst. Then the little column moved off by fours, up the St. Lawrence, in the direction of Montreal.
“Something has happened, thet’s certain,” said Skinner. “Looks ter me like a retreat.”
The march of the soldiers with their prisoners was kept up for three days, when the outskirts of Montreal were reached. Then came other dispatches for the commander of the little column, and the prisoners were sent into the city under a guard of six men, while the main body of the soldiery moved eastward again.
At the time of which I write, Montreal, now a large and flourishing city, was but a small town, consisted principally of low one- and two-storied houses, of logs and stone. There were several stores, or rather trading shops and some little shipping during the summer time, along the waterfront. The people, mostly Catholics, were very religious and had three churches and also a seminary, which, on account of its towers, could be seen from a great distance.
The defenses of the town were not many and the place had suffered much from having quartered the army of Montcalm on more than one occasion. During those times the French soldiers had eaten very nearly all the food in sight, leaving the town people to famish. Business and trading were almost at a standstill, and at times even money could not procure the necessities of life.
On entering Montreal Henry saw but little of the place, for he was hurried without ceremony to a stone building which the French had turned into an army prison. In this building were huddled over a score of prisoners of all descriptions—a motley, half-dressed and half-starved crowd, some grenadiers, some rangers, and some civilians. Everybody in the crowd was out of humor, and groans and curses were frequent. But the prisoners did not dare to talk too loudly, for if they did, a guard would appear and threaten them with solitary confinement in a stone cell under one of the churches.
“What an awful place to stay in,” was Henry’s mental comment. He found himself pushed hither and thither, while the stench of the prison made him literally sick. “This is Jean Bevoir’s work. He will make me suffer as much as he possibly can.”