So the years of Hector's boyhood had been passed in an atmosphere of idealistic tradition.
His first attempt at soldiering in earnest was made when he was twelve years old—with the Fenian raids on the Niagara Peninsula.
The Blenheim Rangers, one of Upper Canada's finest militia regiments, being called out on this occasion to defend the frontier, Hector yearned to march away with them. He thought, poor youngster, that he might be allowed to serve as a bugler or a drummer, for he was big and strong for his age. Born, as Maintop put it, with a sword in his hand and epaulettes on his shoulders, accustomed all his life to hear of 'sallies and retires, of trenches, tents' and such matters, his daily course shaped with the idea that he was eventually to have a Commission, this was only natural. The Colonel, equally naturally, refused point-blank to let him go. And—again of course—Hector took the law into his own hands and ran away.
All was confusion and anxiety at Silvercrest during the following three days and a hue and cry sought Hector over half Upper Canada. When eventually he was brought back, a dishevelled, unhappy little figure, the Colonel found he had not the heart to punish him as he deserved. He could only gently reprove him and promise that, in any future emergency, provided the authorities would have him, he would be allowed to go.
Though Hector's share in the repulse of the Fenian raids was thus brought to nought, the attempt had at least shown that the spirit of soldiering was strong within him.
The Colonel's promise was tested and Hector's second opportunity came with the expedition sent to crush the rebellion on the Red River. The boy was then sixteen and already of fine physique. John, who had a Commission in one of the regiments, requested and, to Hector's rapture, received permission to enlist him in his company. But again Fate stepped in, cruelly. Hector got as far as Toronto, where the expedition was assembling, when a telegram recalled him. His adored little sister, Nora, always delicate, was dying of pneumonia caught in a summer storm. Hector reached home in time to hold her dead body in his arms. He was heart-broken. Grown pale and stooped and haggard in a night, his father made him a piteous appeal.
"Hector," he had said, "I want you to give up this idea of going to Fort Garry. It would have been different had—had Nora lived. But your mother needs you now. She can't lose her two babies at once. Everything can be arranged. My friends in the Rifles will give you your discharge. I hate to disappoint you a second time, boy. I'm asking you to make a big sacrifice."
And Hector—with a great effort of real courage—had answered quietly,
"Of course, in that case, sir—I'll not go."
So he moved a step nearer true manhood.