XIV
A DRUMMER OF WARBURTON’S
How a Boy Held Fort George at Cape Canso, in 1757
A few hours ago I found an odd-shaped bit of blackened brass. The thing lies before me now as I write. It is a drum-hook. I know this for the simple reason that I was once a drummer-boy myself, and could not be mistaken regarding such a familiar object. I found this drum-hook among a lot of other odds and ends at the bottom of a well in an old, long-abandoned fortification. The poor scrap of silent metal brings to mind the tale of Rupert Haydon, drummer-boy in one of the old line regiments. His deed of heroism was performed at this same old fort which I have to-day been ransacking. Perhaps this drum-hook was once used by him! It is not at all unlikely.
By turning to your map of North America you can easily distinguish Cape Canso, at the eastern extremity of the mainland of Nova Scotia. Upon an island, about a mile from the shore and forming with it the harbor of Canso, is the grass-grown fortress which I have mentioned. The name of the island is George’s; the fort has had several high-sounding titles. Why should it not? It is old—older perhaps than others with claims of easier proof. In 1518, over a century before the Pilgrims landed at Plymouth, legend says that Baron de Lery threw up the first embankments and claimed the country for the crown of France. Several times this fort has been besieged and captured, at heavy loss of life. New England sent expeditions against it. The bloodthirsty Indians repeatedly raided the place. In 1745 Pepperell and his valiant little army of Massachusetts, New Hampshire, and Connecticut militia remained here for some weeks, in order to acquire drill and discipline before moving upon the boasted Louisburg. And many another martial display has this neglected old fort witnessed, and personages celebrated in our history have walked within its ramparts upon occasion.
In the year 1757 Fort George, as it was then called, had as its garrison a small detachment from Colonel Warburton’s regiment of foot. This trifling force was compelled to watch over a wide extent of territory in addition to the special place they occupied. France and England were again at war, and both regular expeditions and lawless guerillas abounded.
On a certain day in midsummer the garrison embarked upon a small vessel and sailed away to the relief of a threatened settlement. Rupert Haydon, the drummer-boy, was left in charge of the fort. With him were several women, wives of soldiers, and their small children.
“We shall be gone but a week at most, drummer,” Captain Peabody had announced. “It suits me not to leave women and stores so ill protected, but the commands of my superiors must be obeyed. However, it is scarce likely that the enemy will have knowledge of the fort’s weakness in time to profit thereby.”
The drummer-boy stood at attention and saluted as the soldiers marched out through the covered way. With the aid of the women he hoisted the drawbridge and closed the massive timber gates. Then, scrambling up on top of the parapet, he watched the little sailing craft, her decks all bright with the scarlet-coated warriors, pass out through the narrow harbor entrance and disappear from view around the first headland. Scarcely had the transport so vanished, when Rupert’s keen eyes discovered another vessel making for the harbor from the opposite side.
Mere supposition was useless. The newcomer might prove to be a friend. If an enemy, the chance of being let alone was problematical. It was now too late to recall the recently departed garrison. Upon the drummer’s young shoulders lay the whole burden of maintaining the dignity of the English flag.
Rupert Haydon was only a poorly educated boy, but he must have had a great deal of latent talent. Even while gazing in consternation at the fast-approaching vessel, he mentally mapped out a plan of campaign. Hastily gathering the women about him, he explained the matter to them, and secured their aid. They were all well used to the happening of the unexpected, and inured to danger and fatigue. The wife of a British soldier has never had an easy lot. These rugged-looking though golden-hearted women donned some uniforms left behind by their husbands, and became, in outward appearance at least, full-fledged soldiers. The six small cannon mounted in the fort’s bastions were loaded, small-arms served out, and ammunition placed conveniently to hand. One of the soldier-women mounted guard upon the ramparts, and marched up and down, in plain view, with musket upon shoulder. The English ensign was, of course, flying from the tall staff in the centre of the redoubt.