“This is so pleasant,” remarked Mrs Scott, “that I do not wonder at people growing to passionately love Canada. Do you prefer Canada to Scotland, Maggie?”
“I never saw Scotland,” replied Maggie, “but I dearly love Canada and can find it in my heart to wish that the Colonel may wring the necks of those who are trying to take it away from us.”
“Well said!” shouted the Colonel, “and Canada is so favored by nature in her line of defence and in her climate, that I cannot conceive how, if her people are true, she can ever come under the heel of a conqueror.”
The day passed happily and so did several others. Accompanying Mrs Scott, Maggie visited the little canals that enabled the boats, that plied between Montreal and Upper Canada, to overcome the rapids, to see the lockmen and their families, and watch the peculiar class of men who assisted the boats in passing upwards, either by poling and towing or by lightening their load with the help of their diminutive carts and ponies. With the garrison and its daily life she became familiar, and the detachment of blue jackets, drafted from the men-of-war at Quebec, partly engaged in manning the gunboats already afloat and in building others, she never wearied in watching. Each day endeared her more to Mrs Scott, who, she learned, had sacrificed her comfort and safety, by accompanying her husband on duty. Following the regiment, she had been with him in India, Egypt, and Spain, and, when ordered on special service to Canada, had unhesitatingly followed him, leaving their two children with friends in England. Maggie saw that her presence was a help rather than a drag upon the Colonel, whom she assisted and cared for as only a true woman can and preserved him from many privations he must otherwise have undergone. While most anxious to be at home again, it was not without a pang of regret that Maggie learned one morning that a fleet of the King’s bateaux was in sight coming down the lake. An hour afterwards she was on board of one, waving farewell to her friends. Landed at the foot of the Cascade rapids, she walked home before sunset.
CHAPTER VIII.
The army did not begin a forward movement towards Canada on the day of Morton’s interview with Hampton. It was only the first of several abortive starts, and the autumn days were drawing towards an end with the army still encamped at Four Corners. The American public was indignant at its inaction: much had been expected of the army, yet it had accomplished nothing, and the campaigning season was near an end. The denunciations of the Albany and New York newspapers Hampton could not stoop to reply to: those of the Washington authorities he answered by laying the blame upon Wilkinson. He was to move on Montreal in conjunction with that general, and his failure to leave Sackett’s Harbor he gave as the cause of his own inaction. To the critics who suggested he had sufficient strength to capture Montreal unaided, he represented that his orders from Washington expressly required him to co-operate with the flotilla that was hugging the shelter of Sackett’s Harbor. If he was left free to act by the secretary-of-war, he would show the country what he could do, but he was not free. There were those who thought his excuses were the offspring of his secret wish, to get out of the campaign without risking any great movement. In all those days of dallying, Morton lay forlorn in the stable, sick of his confinement and of prolonged suspense, until the doctor, taking pity upon him, asked, if the General could be induced to grant him the freedom of the camp on parole, would he accept it? Eager to get out of his dismal prison and hopeless of escape, Morton eagerly embraced the offer, and next day he was told he was at liberty to leave his wretched abode during daylight. The boon proved to be of less advantage than he had anticipated. The officers would not consort with him, professing to believe he had been a party to the disfigurement and murder of their late comrade, and the rank-and-file swore at him as an abettor of the Indians and as a Britisher. The miscarriage of the campaign had soured the tempers of the troops, and they were ready to vent it upon Morton or any other of the enemy who came within reach of their tongues. After a few hours’ unpleasant experience, Morton returned to his stable indignant and humiliated. Altho’ thus cut off from intercourse with the military, he enjoyed the freedom of moving about. Even lying on the grass and watching the face of nature, was inexpressibly sweet to him. In course of time he scraped acquaintance with a few civilians, and especially with a storekeeper, Douglass, a Scotchman, who showed him such kindness as he dared without bringing upon himself the suspicion of disloyalty. The weather, which had been uninterruptedly dry and hot, underwent a sudden change, to wet and cold, and from suspense as to when they would march into Canada the troops began to hope that orders would come from Washington to retire into winter-quarters. One particularly cold, rainy evening, Morton retired to rest in a mood that was in keeping with his dismal surroundings, and courted sleep to give him temporary relief. How long he might have been lost in slumber he was unconscious, when awakened by something lightly passing over his face. “Keep quiet,” said a voice: “do not cry or you may attract the guard.” The darkness was intense; the patter of the rain on the roof the only sound without. The voice Morton recognized at once as Hemlock’s.
“How did you get here? Do you not know they would tear you limb from limb if they found you?”
“I know it all, but an Indian brave counts nothing when he goes to save a friend. Get up and go with me.”
A momentary feeling of exultation fluttered in Morton’s breast at the prospect of liberty, followed by the depressing recollection that he had given his word not to escape.