Babette. Brave! moi! Madame is kind to say it so.
But bravery of women—what is that
To bravery of man?
Tom. An' that's just what I said to Hatty, mother,
When she declared that Aunty Laura was
As brave as soldiers, 'cause she went an' fetched
Poor Uncle James from off the battlefield.
After the fight was over. That wasn't much!
Widow. You're but an ignorant little boy, my son,
But might be wiser were you not so pert.
Sergeant. I heard not that before, ma'am.
Widow. Did you not?
'Tis very true. Upon that dreadful day,
After Brock fell, and in the second fight,
When with the Lincoln men and Forty-first
Sheaffe led the attack, poor Captain Secord dropped,
Shot, leg and shoulder, and bleeding there he lay,
With numbers more, when evening fell; for means
Were small to deal with wounded men, and all,
Soldiers and citizens, were spent and worn
With cruel trials. So when she learned he lay
Among the wounded, his young wife took up
A lantern in her hand, and searched the field—
Whence sobs and groans and cries rose up to heaven
And paled the tearful stars—until she found
The man she loved, not sure that life remained.
Then binding him as best she might, she bore,
With some kind aid, the fainting body home,—
If home it could be called where rabid hate
Had spent its lawless rage in deeds of spite;
Where walls and roof were torn with many balls,
And shelter scarce was found.
That very night,
[!-- Begin Page 29 --] Distrustful lest the foe, repulsed and wild,
Should launch again his heavier forces o'er
The flood, she moved her terror-stricken girls—
Four tender creatures—and her infant boy,
Her wounded husband and her two young slaves,
'Neath cover of thick darkness to the farm,
A mile beyond: a feat even for a man.
And then she set her woman's wit and love
To the long task of nursing back to health
Her husband, much exhaust through loss of blood,
and all the angry heat of gunshot wounds.
But James will never be himself again
Despite her care.
Sergeant. 'Twas well and bravely done.
Yet oft I think the women of these days
Degenerate to those I knew in youth.
Widow. You're hasty, Sergeant, already hath this war
Shown many a young and delicate woman
A very hero for—her hero's sake;
Nay, more, for others'. She, our neighbour there
At Queenston, who when our troops stood still,
Weary and breathless, took her young babe,
Her husband under arms among the rest,
And cooked and carried for them on the field:
Was she not one in whom the heroic blood
Ran thick and strong as e'er in times gone by?
O Canada, thy soil is broadcast strown
With noble deeds: a plague on him, I say,
Who follows with worse seed!
(She rises and prepares for making pies. Babette clears off the table, and Sergeant George smokes his pipe, sitting close to the open chimney, now filled with fresh branches of spruce and cedar.)
Sergeant. Well, mistress, p'rhaps you're right; old folks aye think
Old times the best; but now your words recall
The name of one, the bravest of her sex,
[!-- Begin Page 30 --] So far as e'er I saw, save, p'rhaps, the Baroness.
Tender of frame, most gentle, softly raised,
And young, the Lady Harriet Acland shared,
With other dames whose husbands held commands,
The rough campaign of 'Seventy-six.
But her lot fell so heavy, and withal
She showed such spirit, cheerfulness, and love,
Her name became a watchword in the ranks.
Widow. And what about her, Sergeant?