In a despondent mood Morton turned away and sought the guard-tent, when he gave himself up to the officer-of-the-day, who accepted his surrender as a matter of course. The soldiers took little notice of him, being in high spirits at the prospect of going back to the States and busily engaged in the preparations to leave. That afternoon part of the baggage-train left and went floundering along the muddy road to Four Corners. As evening drew nigh, the rain, accompanied by a raw east wind, recommenced, flooding the level clearances upon which the tents were pitched and making everybody miserable. The captain of the guard sought shelter from the blast and the water by causing the tents he controlled to be pitched on the slope of a hollow scooped out by a creek, and in one of them Morton lay down along with seven soldiers. Sleep soon came to relieve him of his depression in mind and discomfort of body, and the hours sped while he was so unconscious that he did not hear when his companions left to take their turn on duty and those they relieved took their places in the tent. His first deep sleep was over when he felt that some furtive hand was being passed over the canvas to find the opening. When the flap was drawn aside, so dark was it that he could not distinguish who stood there. He supposed it was some belated private seeking cover from the pelting rain and he was about to turn and resume his slumber when a flint was struck and the tent was lit for a moment by its sparks. Somebody lighting a pipe, he said, too drowsy to look. A minute afterwards he felt that the curtain of the tent where his head lay was being cautiously lifted and soon a hand reached in, touched his face, and then catching the collar of his coat began pulling. He made a motion to resist, when a voice whispered, “Hemlock.” In a flash he realized he was about to be rescued, and, guided by the hand that grasped him, slowly crept out. No sooner was he upon his feet, than he felt men were gliding past him into the tent. All at once there was a sound of striking, as of knives being driven into the bodies of the sleeping inmates, a slight commotion, a few groans, and then all was still. Morton’s flesh crept, as he guessed at the horrid work in which the Indians were engaged. So intensely dark was it, that he could see nothing. There was a slight shuffling of feet and he was grasped by the arm on either side and hurried forward. He knew they were following the course of the ravine, for he could hear the wash of the creek. Suddenly his conductors came to a halt and there was a pause, until a faint chirrup was heard. Then the bank was climbed and, emerging on a clearance, Morton saw the tents of the American camp some distance to his left, lit up by the smoldering fires that burned dimly between the rows. Looking round, he for the first time saw his companions, who were, as he suspected, a band of Indians. Taking advantage of every available cover the Indians glided, in single file, across the bit of open that intervened between where they stood and the bush. When its shelter was gained, they halted on a dry knoll, and squatted, when they began to giggle and to chatter in their native tongue, plainly exulting over the success of their raid. Morton tried to communicate with them, but found they could not speak English, and the only word they uttered which he recognized was “Hemlock,” altho’ that great chief was not among them. One of them could speak a little French, which, however, Morton did not understand. When daylight began to creep in upon the darkness, they became alert, and as soon as it was clear enough to see where they were going they started; Morton had no idea in what direction. All he knew was, that their course led them over a swampy country intersected by stony ridges, and that had it not been that the leaders of the file broke a path he could never have followed. The exertion was exhausting and he would have succumbed at the end of the first hour had it not been that the spirit of freedom elated him, and the knowledge that every mile he overtook increased the distance between him and the hated bondage from which he had escaped spurred him on. On the edge of an apparently limitless swamp they paused before entering upon it to have a smoke. It was apparent that they carried no food. Morton sank upon a pile of leaves that had drifted against a log and stretched his wearied legs. Refreshed by the rest, he faced the swamp with courage, soon finding, however, that, without the help of the Indians, he could have made little headway. With the light step and agility of cats they stepped over quaking surfaces and sprang from log to log until solid land was reached, and with it came the sound of rushing water. Escaping from the brush, a broad river, dashing impetuously over a rocky channel, burst in view. Following its bank in single file, Morton saw it grew wider, until it expanded into a lake, when he knew it was the St Lawrence. On coming opposite the promontory that marked the inlet of the river from the lake, the Indians eagerly scrutinized it. Gathering some damp leaves they made a smoke. The signal was seen by those opposite, for a long-boat was launched from under the trees and rapidly approached them. Morton’s heart leapt with joy when he distinguished that the steersman had a red-coat on, and as the boat drew nearer and he could make out the ruddy countenances of the crew, frank and open in expression, and catch the sound of their hearty English speech, he could not resist the impulse to swing his hat and wake the echoes with a lusty cheer. The Indians grinned and one clapped him on the back in high approval.
The corporal in charge of the boat informed Morton that he belonged to the garrison of Coteau-du-lac and was, for the week, with the party on the point, to guard the south channel. There were so many Indians that the boat had to leave part for a second trip. On landing at the point Morton was warmly welcomed by the officer in charge, and given the best he had, which proved to be fried pork and biscuit. At noon the boat that daily brought supplies from Coteau arrived, and in it Morton with the Indians embarked. As soon as he stepped ashore, he made for the commander’s quarters and was shown into the presence of Col. Lethbridge. On announcing who he was, the Colonel welcomed him as one from the dead and impatiently demanded to hear when and how he had escaped. When he came to tell of the exploit of the preceding night, and that the Indians who had performed in it were waiting in the barrack-yard, the Colonel thumped the table and swore each man of them would take home all the tobacco and pork he could carry. Going out to see them before they left, Morton learned through an interpreter of Hemlock’s death and that his rescue was in fulfilment of an order he had left. They were going to Oka to join the party who were on the way from the Chateaugay with his body, to bury it beside that of his daughter, and hold a funeral lodge. Morton was deeply moved. “Faithful soul,” he exclaimed, “would to heaven he had lived that I might have shown him my gratitude.” Applying to the paymaster he obtained an advance, and in parting with the Indians pressed a big Mexican dollar into the hand of each of them.
Colonel Lethbridge insisted on Morton’s being his guest, and after leaving him in his bedroom sent his servant to wait upon him, and who brought a fresh suit of clothes. Morton was the hero of the garrison, and when he appeared at the mess-table, so many complimentary speeches were made, so many songs sung, and so many toasts drank that it was nigh midnight when he got to bed. He rose next morning intent on entering harness again, and over a late breakfast discussed with Col. Lethbridge as to how he could rejoin his regiment, which had been called to the Niagara frontier, and it was agreed he should go by the next convoy, always provided Wilkinson did not come, which, after what Morton reported of Hampton’s army returning to the States, Lethbridge doubted. Each day tidings of Wilkinson’s leaving the shelter of Sackett’s Harbor had been looked for, and the feeling was that unless he left within a week he would not come at all, for the season was now well-advanced, and already on several mornings had ice formed round boats while lying at Coteau. Col. Scott had been sent to Cornwall to superintend the preparations there, and Lethbridge had taken his place at the less important point. The following week the unexpected happened—late one afternoon a gunboat came down the lake under press of canvas, with word that Wilkinson had started—was descending the river with a flotilla of 300 boats bearing 7000 men. A few days of excitement and wearing suspense succeeded, and then, came word of the battle of Crystler’s Farm—how a strong brigade of Americans had landed at the head of the Long Sault rapids to clear the north bank of the batteries the British had planted to prevent the flotilla descending and been routed by General Boyd. Treading upon the heels of the news of that decisive victory came the announcement that Wilkinson had abandoned his undertaking and had gone back to the United States by sailing into Salmon river with his beaten army. The campaign was ended for the season, and troops were ordered into winter-quarters. The day the news reached Coteau of Wilkinson’s flight to French Mills, a string of boats came up loaded with military stores for Upper Canada and a few troops. To Morton’s astonishment, among them was the detachment he had conducted to the Chateaugay. The camp there having been broken up, they were on their way to join the regiment, and hoped to reach it before navigation closed. Gladly Morton resumed command and six days later reported at Niagara.
CHAPTER XIV.
After a night of excitement from wild alarms, the Americans left the Forsyth household at daylight, leaving not one behind, for even the wounded officer they carried with them in a litter. Utterly worn out the family sought rest, and it was late in the day when the father arose, and leaving the others, sleeping, went out to see what of his property had been left. The more closely he examined the more fully the unwelcome fact was forced upon him, that he was left destitute, and when he came upon the black head of his cow, which the soldiers had slaughtered for beef, he sat down in a despairing mood. “It’s no for mysel’ I’m troubled,” he exclaimed, “but for my ailin’ wife and puir Maggie! To face a Canadian winter wi’ a bare loof is awfu.” And he gave way to a fit of despondency. “This winna do,” he said with a rueful look at the devastation around him, “a stout heart to a stey brae, and wi’ God’s help, I’ll mak the best o’t.” When Maggie sometime afterwards appeared at the door he was industriously laboring to bring his surroundings into order. “Weel, lass, an’ hoo are ye after oor big pairty?”
“No so ill; but, father, what are we to do, there’s no a bite in the house? The cellar is rookit as clean as if a pack of wolves had visited it.”
The old man approached and taking his daughter by the hand drew her to the seat by the door-step. “Maggie, I ken ye hae a brave spirit and can bear the worst. I am a ruined man. The Yankees have eaten us oot o’ house an’ hold. The very boards o’ the byre hae been torn awa’ to licht their fires. Oor coo, the young beasts, the pigs, hae a’ been eaten. There’s no even a chuckie left.”
“O but there is,” interrupted Maggie, “see to Jenny Tapknot over there,” pointing smilingly thro’ tears to a favorite chicken that had eluded the soldiers and was eyeing them from a branch.