Rolf's was easily a winning fight from the first, and in a week he was eating well, sleeping well, and growing visibly daily stronger.
Then on a fleckless dawn that heralded a sun triumphant, the Indian borrowed a drum from the bandsman, and, standing on the highest breastwork, he gazed across the dark waters to the whitening hills. There on a tiny fire he laid tobacco and kinnikinnik, as Gisiss the Shining One burnt the rugged world rim at Vermont, and, tapping softly with one stick, he gazed upward, after the sacrificial thread of smoke, and sang in his own tongue:
“Father, I burn tobacco, I smoke to Thee. I sing for my heart is singing.”
Pleasant chatter of the East was current by Rolf's bedside. Stories of homes in the hills he heard, tales of hearths by far away lakes and streams, memories of golden haired children waiting for father's or brother's return from the wars. Wives came to claim their husbands, mothers to bring away their boys, to gain again their strength at home. And his own heart went back, and ever back, to the rugged farm on the shores of the noble George.
In two weeks he was able to sit up. In three he could hobble, and he moved about the town when the days were warm.
And now he made the acquaintance of the prisoners. They were closely guarded and numbered over a hundred. It gave him a peculiar sensation to see them there. It seemed un-American to hold a human captive; but he realized that it was necessary to keep them for use as hostages and exchanges.
Some of them he found to be sullen brutes, but many were kind and friendly, and proved to be jolly good fellows.
On the occasion of his second visit, a familiar voice saluted him with, “Well, Rolf! Comment ca va?” and he had the painful joy of greeting Francois la Colle.
“You'll help me get away, Rolf, won't you?” and the little Frenchman whispered and winked. “I have seven little ones now on La Riviere, dat have no flour, and tinks dere pa is dead.”
“I'll do all I can, Francois,” and the picture of the desolate home, brought a husk in his voice and a choke in his throat. He remembered too the musket ball that by intent had whistled harmless overhead. “But,” he added in a shaky voice, “I cannot help my country's enemy to escape.”