“That’s right, Harry. That is just the purpose the island once served. It is almost in the center of the river. It was the plan of the conspirators to make it a sort of headquarters, and it was well stocked with arms and ammunition, all hidden in carefully excavated caves and galleries within the island itself; although there were some caves already in existence, for the place was selected for that very reason.”
“What became of the invaders?” inquired Percy Simmons, who was not versed in this chapter of the history of the northern border line.
“They were repulsed and many of them surrounded in the old windmill tower and starved, or shot to death by the Canadians,” was the reply. “Others, who took refuge in the caves and tunnels, were driven out by hunger and made prisoners. Oh, yes; Windmill Island has seen stirring times since the old French settlers first put up that tower. The sails of the mill rotted away long ago, and now there is only the tower left to show what once stood there.”
“But who lives there now?” asked Harry curiously.
“I don’t know that it has any regular residents,” was Ralph’s rejoinder. “I’ve heard that it is sometimes used by smugglers or fish dynamiters, but so far as that goes, I have no first-hand knowledge.”
“At any rate, we might land there and remain till daylight,” suggested Percy Simmons.
“That’s a good idea, Persimmons,” concurred Ralph.
He turned the tender’s head and started to row toward the island. They could now see its rocky shores bulking up darkly under the tall tower, which had once been a windmill, peacefully grinding out grain for the early settlers on the St. Lawrence.
“I suppose Harry would rather stay in the boat,” said Percy Simmons mischievously. “There are sure to be spooks around on an island that has seen so much of tragedy.”
“Say, do you want to swim ashore?” demanded Harry indignantly. “Just cut that out if you don’t want to get hurt. Wow!”