CHAPTER XII.
Two days later Hemlock was one of a group standing on the north bank of the river, where it broke into a short rapid, named from the settler whose shanty overlooked it, Morrison’s rapid. The group included representatives of the different corps that had been gathered together, with several settlers. They were watching, in the fading twilight, a thin line of moving red, emerging from the bush. It was a battalion of the Canadian Fencibles that had come from Kingston to reinforce deWatteville. The newcomers were soon among them, brawny Highlanders from Glengarry, French Canadian lumbermen, and a number of farmers from the English settlements in the east. They were greeted with the earnestness men in peril welcome help, and assistance was given in preparing such food as was available, while many sought rest after their exhausting journey in the outbuildings of Morrison and in the sheds that had been prepared for them. Their commander, Col. Macdonell, a thin, wiry man, with a fair complexion that gave him the name of Macdonell the Red, having seen his men disposed of, moved to the house. At the door Morrison, himself a Highlander, bade his guest welcome in the purest of Argyllshire Gaelic, and produced his bottle. After the glass had passed round, Macdonell said, “We have come far to have a tilt with the Yankees: will we be sure to meet them?”
“That you will,” answered Morrison, “they are within four miles of you and will pay us a visit, maybe, the morn.”
“Ha! That news does me more good than your dram. When there is fighting to be done, a Highlandman’s blood runs faster. Get us some supper ready, and while we wait I’ll find out what has been done. Is there none of the General’s staff here?”
“Not an officer: they are all busy at the making of barricades; but here is an Indian with a longer head than any of them, and who can speak good English, which, however, is not to be compared with our mother-language.”
Resuming the use of the despised tongue—for he scorned to give English the name of language—Morrison introduced Hemlock, and drawing him to a corner of the hearth, Macdonell plied him with questions. The Indian, using the ramrod of his musket, drew a plan of the country in the ashes at their feet, explaining how the Americans were encamped a few miles farther up the river and that to get to Montreal they must go down the road that followed its north bank. To prevent him, General deWatteville had caused the numerous gullies of creeks where they emptied into the Chateaugay, to be protected by breastworks of fallen trees, behind which the British would contest their advance. Six of these gullies had been so prepared. In rear of them, was the main line of defence, placed where the ground was favorable, and strengthened by breastworks and two small cannon.
“Aye, aye!” exclaimed Macdonell, “all very well if the Americans keep to the road: but what are we to do should they try to flank us?”
The Indian’s face darkened as he whispered, “deWatteville is a good man but he is an Old World soldier who knows nothing about bush-fighting. He would not believe me, when I told them there were bush-whackers in the Yankee army who could march to his rear through the woods.”
“That they could!” agreed the Colonel, “and where would he be then? And what good would his six lines of barricades be? My own lads today came over ground where regulars would have been bogged. Then the river can be forded opposite this house. Could the Yankees get to this ford?”
Hemlock said they could, when Macdonell answered he would see to it that preparations were made to checkmate such a move. Finding Hemlock acute and thoroughly acquainted with the field of operations, the Highlander’s heart warmed to him as one of like soldierly instincts as his own. Uncontaminated by the prejudice of race common to old residents, he had no feeling against the red-men, and when supper was ready he insisted on Hemlock’s sitting beside him, and in treating him as his equal. As the evening wore on, officers from the neighboring encampments dropped in to exchange greetings with the new-comers, and an orderly brought instructions from the General. When Hemlock left to join his band in their vigils along the enemy’s lines, he felt he had not passed so happy an evening for a dozen of years.