Chapter 3: Albany
"You are not our prisoner," said Colin; "you and your friends are our guests, welcome to stay or go as you will. Only we hope and desire that you will not go forth into the forest again until the snow has melted, and you are sound and whole once more."
The bright-faced boy was seated beside the bed whereon lay Fritz, who felt like a man awakening from a long, strange, and rather frightful dream. He had become unconscious almost immediately after their rescue three days before, and had only now recovered the use of his faculties and the memory of recent events.
"You had a bad wound on the side of your head when we found you," explained Colin. "My uncle, the Abbe, says that had it been left much longer untended you must have died. He is an excellent surgeon himself, having learned much as to the treatment of wounds and bruises and sicknesses of all kinds. He is well pleased with its appearance now, and with your state of health. He says that you Rangers are marvellous tough customers, whether as soldiers or as patients. You take a great deal of killing!"
Fritz smiled in response to the boy's bright look, but there was anxiety in his face too.
"Can you tell me aught of the Rangers?" he said. "You, doubtless, know how we were set upon and dispersed a few days back."
"Yes; and our Captain of the fort is right glad at it," said the boy, "for Rogers led him a dog's life with his raids and robberies. But all is fair in love and war, and it is not for us to complain of what we ourselves have provoked and should do in like circumstances. Nevertheless there is rejoicing at Ticonderoga that the Rangers are dispersed and broken for the present. We were beginning to fear lest they should take away from us all our provision and cut off our supplies."
"Do you know how many were slain?"
"No; but it must have been a considerable number. I am sorry myself. I delight in all brave deeds of daring, and it is the Rangers who have shown themselves the heroes of this campaign. At first they said Rogers himself had been killed, but that has since been contradicted. For myself I do not believe it. The dead were carefully examined by one who knew Rogers well, and he declares there is no corpse that in any way resembles him; and others declare that he was seen escaping to the forest, fighting every inch of the way, with a resolute little band around him whom none cared to follow."
"I myself saw something of that," answered Fritz; "but it all seems like a dream of long ago. Tell me now of those who were with me-Captain Pringle and the lad Roche. Are they here, and unhurt of the Indians?"
"They are sound and well, and though sorely exhausted by cold and hunger and fatigue when they were brought in, are fully recovered now. Captain Pringle is quite a hero with us, for he has told us all the story of that disgraceful and dishonourable day of August last when the laurels of France were sorely tarnished by the treacherous villainy of her Indian allies! Believe me, friend Fritz, we men of France deplore that massacre, and cry shame upon ourselves and our countrymen for not taking sterner measures to repress it. For that reason alone, as mine uncle says, we owe to you and to your companions every honour and courtesy which we can show. If we have sometimes to blush for the conduct of our allies, we can show that we are capable of better things ourselves; and if we can make reparation ever so little, you will not find us backward in doing it."
This indeed seemed to be the feeling of those within the fort. Although these men were Rangers, part of the band which had harassed them so sorely through the winter months, the garrison received them with open arms, ministered to their wants, and vied with one another in making them at home.
The influence of the venerable Abbe might have had something to do with this; but it was greatly due to the chivalry of the French nature, and to the eager desire to show kindness to those who had witnessed and suffered from that awful tragedy which had followed upon the surrender of Fort William Henry, which they felt to be a lasting disgrace to their cause.
Those of the officers who had been there averred that they could never forget the horror of those two days; and the French surgeon who had taken over the English sick and wounded, and yet saw them butchered before his eyes ere he could even call for help, had never been the same man since.
So when Fritz was able to rise from his bed and join his companions, he found himself in pleasant enough quarters, surrounded by friendly faces, and made much of by all in the fort. He, being able to speak French fluently, made himself a great favorite with the men, and he enjoyed many long conversations with the Abbe, who was a man of much acumen and discernment, and saw more clearly the course which events were likely to take than did those amongst whom he lived.
From him Fritz learned that affairs in Canada were looking very grave. There were constant difficulties arising between the various officials there, and the most gross corruption existed in financial affairs, so that there was a rottenness that was eating like a canker into the heart of the colony, despite its outward aspect of prosperity. France was burdened by foreign wars and could do little for her dependencies beyond the sea; whilst England was beginning to awake from her apathy, and she had at her helm now a man who understood as no statesman there had done before him the value to her of these lands beyond the sea.
"I have always maintained," the Abbe would say, "that in spite of all her blunders, which blunders and tardinesses are still continuing, there is a spirit in your English colonies which will one day rise triumphant, and make you a foe to be feared and dreaded. You move with the times; we stand still. You teach and learn independence and self government; we depend wholly upon a King who cares little for us and a country that is engrossed in other matters, and has little thought to spend upon our perils and our troubles. You are growing, and, like a young horse or bullock, you do not know yet how to use your strength. You are unbroken to yoke and halter; you waste your energy in plunging and butting when you should be utilizing it to some good end. Yet mark my words, the day is coming when you will learn to answer to the rein; when you will use your strength reasonably and for a great end and then shall we have cause to tremble before you!"
Fritz listened and partly understood, and could admire the man who spoke so boldly even when he depreciated the power of his own people. He grew to love and revere the Abbe not a little, and when the day came for them to say farewell, it was with real sorrow he spoke his adieu.
"You have been very good to us, my father," he said. "I hope the day may come when we may be able to show our gratitude."
"Like enough it will, my son," answered the Abbe gently; "I have little doubt that it will. If not to me, yet to my children and countrymen. For the moment the laurels of victory remain in our hands; but the tide may some day turn. If so, then remember to be merciful and gentle to those who will be in your power. I think that the English have ever shown themselves generous foes; I think they will continue to show themselves such in the hour of victory."
It was with hearts much cheered and strengthened that the comrades went forth from Ticonderoga. Colin and a few French soldiers accompanied them for some distance.
They did not propose to try to seek Rogers or his scattered Rangers; there was no knowing where they would now be found. Fritz had decided to push back to Fort Edward, and so to Albany, the quaint Dutch settlement which had been the basis of recent operations, being the town nearest to the western frontier at this point. There they would be certain to get news of what was going on in the country, and for a short time it would be pleasant to dwell amid the haunts of men, instead of in these remote fastnesses of the forest.
"I hope we shall meet again," said Colin, as he held Fritz's hand in a last clasp. "I am not altogether French. I find that I can love the English well. Quebec will be my home before long. Corinne is there already, and my uncle and I will return there shortly. It is a fine city, such as you have hardly seen in your wanderings so far. I would I could show it you. Some say the English have an eye upon it, as the key to Canada. In sooth I think they would find it a hard nut to crack. We of the city call it impregnable. But come you in peace there, and I will show it you with joy."
They parted with a smile and a warm clasp, little guessing how they would meet next.
The journey to Albany was uneventful. The travellers met with no misadventures, and upon a sunny April evening drew near to the pleasant little town, smiling in the soft sunshine of a remarkably warm evening.
It presented a singularly peaceful appearance. The fort was on the hill behind, and seemed to stand sentinel for the little township it was there to protect. The wide grassy road ran down towards the river, its row of quaint Dutch houses broken by a group of finer and more imposing buildings, including the market, the guard house, the town hall, and two churches.
The houses were not built in rows, but each stood in its own garden, possessing its well, its green paddock, and its own overshadowing tree or trees. They were quaintly built, with timbered fronts, and great projecting porches where the inhabitants gathered at the close of the day, to discuss the news and to gossip over local or provincial affairs.
As the travellers entered the long, wide street, their eyes looked upon a pleasant, homely scene-the cows straying homeward, making music with their bells, stopping each at her own gate to be milked; the children hanging around, porringer in hand, waiting for the evening meal; matrons and the elder men gathered in groups round the doors and in the porches; young men wrestling or arguing in eager groups; and the girls gathered together chatting and laughing, throwing smiling glances towards their brothers and lovers as they strove for victory in some feat of skill or strength.
It was difficult to believe that so peaceful a scene could exist in a country harassed by war, or that these settlers could carry on their lives in so serene and untroubled a fashion with the dread war cloud hovering in the sky above.
There was one house which stood a little apart from the others, and wore a rather more imposing aspect, although, like all the rest, it was of a quaint and home-like appearance. It stood a little back from the main streets and its porch was wider and larger, whilst the garden in front was laid out with a taste and care which bespoke both skill and a love for nature's products.
The travellers were slowly wending their way past this house, debating within themselves where to stop for the night, and just beginning to attract the attention of the inhabitants, when a voice hailed them eagerly from the wide porch.
"Fritz Neville, or I'm a Dutchman myself! And Pringle and Roche as well! Why, man, we thought we had left you dead in the forest. We saw you cut off from us and surrounded. We never had a hope of seeing you alive again. This is a happy meeting, in truth!"
Fritz started at the sound of his name, and the next minute had made a quick forward hound, his face shining all over.
It was Lord Howe who had hailed him-the bold, joyous young Viscount beloved by all who knew him. The comrades shook hands again and again as they eagerly exchanged greetings.
"Oh, we got away to the forest, Rogers and Stark and I, and a score or more. Other stragglers kept dropping in and joining us, and many more, as we found later, had made their way back to Fort Edward. But nowhere could we learn news of you. Come in, come in; you will be welcomed warmly by my kind hostess, Mrs. Schuyler. She has been the friend and mother of all English fugitives in their destitution and need. I have a home with her here for the present, till the army from England and the levies from the provinces arrive. Come in, good comrades, and do not fear; there will be a warm welcome here for you."
They followed Howe to the house, and found that he had not deceived them as to the welcome they would receive. Colonel Schuyler was a great man in Albany, and his wife was deservedly respected and beloved. Just now the Colonel was absent on duties connected with the coming campaign, in which Albany was becoming keenly interested. The neighbouring provinces, particularly that of Massachusetts, had awakened at last from lethargy, and the inhabitants were bestirring themselves with zeal, if not always with discretion. The Colonel, who had warmly embraced the English cause, was doing what he could there to raise arms and men, and his wife at home was playing her part in caring for the fugitives who kept passing through on their way from the forest, both after the massacre at Fort William Henry, and after the rout of the Rangers.
Rogers himself was too restless a being to remain in the haunts of civilization. He and a few picked men were again off to the forest. But Stark, who had been wounded, and Lord Howe, who was awaiting orders from England as to his position in command during the approaching campaign, remained as guests with Mrs. Schuyler; and she at once begged that Fritz and his companions would do the same, since her house was roomy, and she desired to do all in her power for those who were about to risk their lives in the endeavour to suppress the terrible Indian raids, and to crush the aggressions of those who used these raids as a means of obtaining their own aggrandizement.
It was a pleasant house to stay in, and Mrs. Schuyler was like a mother to them all. For Lord Howe she entertained a warm affection, which he requited with a kindred feeling.
All was excitement in Albany now. General Abercromby was on the way to take the command of the forces; but Lord Howe was to have a position of considerable importance, and it was whispered by those who knew what went on behind the scenes that it was to his skill and courage and military prowess that Pitt really looked. He received private dispatches by special messengers, and his bright young face was full of purpose and lofty courage.
The Massachusetts levies began to assemble, and Howe took the raw lads in hand, and began to drill them with a wonderful success. But it was no play work to be under such a commander. They had come for once rather well provided with clothing and baggage; but Howe laughed aloud at the thought of soldiers encumbering themselves with more impedimenta than was actually needful.
The long, heavy-skirted coats which the soldiers wore, both regulars and provincials, excited his ridicule, as did also the long hair plaited into a queue behind and tied with ribbons.
His own hair he had long since cut short to his head- a fashion speedily imitated by officers and men alike, who all adored him. He suggested that skirtless coats would be more easy to march in than the heavy ones in vogue, and forthwith all the skirts were cut off, and the coats became short jackets, scarcely reaching the waist.
The men laughed at their droll appearance, but felt the freedom and increased marching power; and as Lord Howe wore just such a coat himself, who could complain? He wore leggings of leather, such as were absolutely needful to forest journeys, and soon his men did the same. No women were to be allowed to follow his contingent; and as for washing of clothes, why, Lord Howe was seen going down to the river side to wash his own, and the fashion thus set was followed enthusiastically by his men.
If their baggage was cut down to a minimum, they were each ordered to carry thirty pounds of meal in a bag; so that it was soon seen that Lord Rowe's contingent could not only walk further and faster in march than any other, but that it would be independent of the supply trains for pretty nearly a month. They carried their own bread material, and the forest would always supply meat.
Fritz was ever forward to carry out the wishes and act as the right hand of the hardy Brigadier; for that was Lord Howe's military rank. Pringle and Roche served under him, too, and there was a warm bond growing up betwixt officers and men, and a feeling of enthusiasm which seemed to them like an augury of victory to come.
"Our business is to fight the foe-to do our duty whether we live or die," Howe would say to his men. "We have failed before; we may fail again. Never mind; we shall conquer at last. With results the soldier has nothing to do. Remember that. He does his duty. He sticks to his post. He obeys his commands. Do that, men; and whether we conquer or die, we shall have done our duty, and that is all our country asks of us."
And now the long days of June had come, and all were eager for the opening campaign. Ticonderoga was to be attacked. To wrest from the French some of their strong holds on the western English border-to break their power in the sight of the Indians-was a thing that was absolutely necessary to the life of the New England colonies and the other provinces under English rule. Fort Edward still remained to her, though Oswego and William Henry had fallen and were demolished. The capture of Ticonderoga would be a blow to France which would weaken her immensely, and lower her prestige with the Indians, which was now a source of great danger to the English colonists.
The story of the massacre after the surrender of Fort William Henry had made a profound impression throughout the English-speaking provinces, and had awakened a longing after vengeance which in itself had seemed almost like an earnest of victory. And now the regular troops began to muster and pour in, and Albany was all excitement and enthusiasm; for the Dutch had by that time come to have a thorough distrust of France, and to desire the victory of the English arms only less ardently than the English themselves.
Mrs. Schuyler, as usual, opened her doors wide to receive as many of the officers as she was able whilst the final preparations were being made. And upon a soft midsummer evening Lord Howe appeared in the supper room, bringing with him two fine-looking officers-one grey headed, the other young and ardent-and introducing them to his hostess and those assembled round the table as Major Duncan Campbell, the Laird of Inverawe, in Scotland; with his son Alexander, a Lieutenant of the Highland force.
Young Alexander was seated next to Fritz at table, and began an eager conversation with him. Talk surged to and fro that night. Excitement prevailed everywhere. But Fritz observed that Major Campbell sat very grave and silent, and that even Lord Howe's efforts to draw him into conversation proved unavailing.
Mrs. Schuyler also tried, but with little success, to make the veteran talk. He answered with grave courtesy all remarks made to him, but immediately lapsed into a sombre abstraction, from which it seemed difficult to rouse him.
At the end of the supper Lord Howe rose to his feet, made a dashing little speech to the company, full of fire and enthusiasm, and proposed the toast:
"Success to the expedition against Ticonderoga!"
Fritz happened to be looking at the grave, still face of Major Campbell, and as these words were spoken he saw a sudden spasm pass across it. The soldier rose suddenly to his feet, took up his glass for a moment, put it down untasted, and with a bow to his hostess pushed aside his chair, and strode from the room in an access of visible emotion.
Lord Howe looked after him a moment, and draining his glass, seemed about to go after the guest; but young Alexander, from the other side of the table, made him a sign, and he sat down again.
The incident, however, seemed to act like the breaking up of the supper party, and the guests rose and left the table, dispersing quickly to look after bag or baggage or some last duty, till only Mrs. Schuyler, Lord Howe, Fritz, and Lieutenant Campbell were left in the supper room.
It was then that young Alexander looked round and said, "It was the name you spoke which affected my father so strangely-the fatal name of Ticonderoga!"
"Fatal! how fatal?" asked Lord Howe quickly.
"You have not heard the strange story, then?"
"No; what story?"
"It concerns my father; it is the cause of his melancholy. When you have heard it you will not perhaps wonder, though to you the incident may seem incredible."
"I have learned that there are many things in this world which are wonderful and mysterious, yet which it is folly to disbelieve," answered Howe. "Let us hear your story, Campbell. I would not have spoken words to hurt your father could I have known."
"I am sure you would not; but hear the tale, and you will know why that name sounds in his ears like a death knell.
"Long years ago it must have been when I was but a little child-my father was sitting alone over the fire in our home at Inverawe; a wild, strange place that I love as I love no other spot on earth. He was in the great hall, and, suddenly there came a knocking at the door, loud and imperative. He opened, and there stood a man without, wild and dishevelled, who told how he had slain a man in a fray, and was flying from his pursuers.
"'Give me help and shelter!' he implored; and my father drew him in and closed the door, and promised to hide him. 'Swear on your dirk not to give me up!' he implored; and my father swore, though with him his word was ever his bond. He hid the fugitive in a secret place, and hardly had he done so before there was another loud knocking at the door.
"This time it was the pursuers, hot on the track of the murderer. 'He has slain your cousin Donald,' they told him. 'He cannot be far away. We are hunting for him. Can you help us?' My father was in a great strait; but he remembered his oath, and though he sent out servants to help in the search, he would not give up to justice the man who had trusted him."
"And he was right," said Lord Howe quickly; "I honour and respect him for that."
"It may be so, yet it is against the traditions of our house and race," answered Alexander gravely; "and that night my father woke suddenly from a troubled dream to see the ghost of his murdered kinsman standing at his bedside. The spectre spoke to him in urgent tones:
"'Inverawe, Inverawe, blood has been shed; shield not the murderer!'
"Unable to sleep, my father rose, and went to the fugitive and told him he could not shelter him longer. 'You swore on your dirk!' replied the miserable man; and my father, admitting the oath not to betray him, led him away in the darkness and hid him in a mountain cave known to hardly any save himself.
"That night once more the spectre came and spoke the same words, 'Inverawe, Inverawe, blood has been shed; shield not the murderer!' The vision troubled my father greatly. At daybreak he went once more to the cave; but the man was gone-whither he never knew. He went home, and again upon the third night the ghostly figure stood beside him; but this time he was less stern of voice and aspect.
"He spoke these words, 'Farewell, Inverawe; farewell, till we meet at Ticonderoga.' Then it vanished, and he has never seen it since."
"Ticonderoga!" repeated Lord Howe, and looked steadily at Alexander, who proceeded:
"That was the word. My father had never heard it before. The sound of it was so strange that he wrote it down; and when I was a youth of perhaps seventeen summers, and had become a companion to him, he told me the whole story, and we pondered together as to what and where Ticonderoga could be. Years had passed since he saw the vision, and he had never heard the name from that day. I had not heard it either-then."
The faces of the listeners were full of grave interest. The strangeness of the coincidence struck them all.
"And then?" queried Howe, after a silence.
"Then came the news of this war, and some Highland regiments were ordered off. My father and I were amongst those to go. We were long in hearing what our destination was to be. We had landed upon these shores before we heard that the expedition to which we were attached was bound for Ticonderoga."
Again there was silence, which Mrs. Schuyler broke by asking gently:
"And your father thinks that there is some doom connected with that name?"
"He is convinced that be will meet his death there," replied Alexander, "and I confess I fear the same myself."
Nobody spoke for a minute, and then Mrs. Schuyler said softly:
"It is a strange, weird story; yet it cannot but be true. No man could guess at such a name. Ticonderoga, Ticonderoga. I wonder what will be the end of that day!"
"And what matters the end if we do our duty to the last?" spoke Lord Howe, lifting his bright young face and throwing back his head with a gesture that his friends knew well. "A man can but die once. For my part, I only ask to die sword in hand and face to the foe, doing my duty to my country, my heart at peace with God. That is the spirit with which we soldiers must go into battle. We are sent there by our country; we fight for her. If need be we die for her. Can we ask a nobler death? For myself I do not. Let it come to me at Ticonderoga, or wherever Providence wills, I will not shrink or fear. Give me only the power to die doing my duty, and I ask no more."
There was a beautiful light in his great hazel eyes, a sweet smile hovered round his lips. Fritz, looking at him, seemed to see something in his face which he had scarcely noted before-a depth, a serenity, a beauty quite apart from the dashing gallantry of look and bearing which was his most salient characteristic.
Into the eyes of Mrs. Schuyler there had sprung sudden tears. She went over to the young man and laid a hand upon his head.
"Thank God that our soldiers still go into battle in that spirit; that they make their peace with Him before they draw sword upon their fellow men. A soldier's life is a strange paradox; yet God, who is the God of battles as well as Prince of Peace, knows and understands. He will bless the righteous cause, though He may call to rest many a gallant soldier, and still in death many an ardent young heart. But however mysteriously He works, we are instruments in His hands. Let us strive to be worthy of that honour, and then we shall know that we are helping to bring nearer His kingdom upon earth, which, when once set up, shall bring in a reign of peace, where war shall be no more."
"Amen, with all my heart!" quoth Lord Howe, and there was a light in his eyes which bespoke that, soldier though he was to his fingertips, he was no stranger to the hope of the eternal peace which the Lord alone can give.
Mrs. Schuyler was not a demonstrative woman in daily life; but when her guest rose to say goodnight upon this last evening, she kissed him as a mother might, and he kissed her back with words of tender gratitude and affection.
And so the night fell upon the town of Albany-the night before the march to Ticonderoga.