IN the month of September, 1759, the army of Sir Jeffrey Amherst was in cantonments at Crown Point. A picked corps of American rangers, commanded by Robert Rogers, was attached to this army. One day an aide-de-camp brought Rogers an order to repair forthwith to head-quarters, and in a few moments the ranger entered the general’s marquee.
“At your orders, general,” said the ranger, making his salute.
“About that accursed hornet’s-nest of St. Francis?” said the general, frowning.
“When I was a lad, your excellency, we used to burn a hornet’s-nest, if it became troublesome,” observed Rogers, significantly.
“And how many do you imagine, major, this one has stung to death in the last six years?” inquired General Amherst, fumbling among his papers.
“I don’t know; a great many, your excellency.”
“Six hundred men, women, and children.”
The two men looked at each other a moment without speaking.
“At this rate,” continued the general, “his Majesty’s New England provinces will soon be depopulated.”
“For God’s sake, general, put a stop to this butchery!” ejaculated the exasperated ranger.