CHAPTER XIX
THE AMBUSH AT SENECA FALLS
What new danger threatened them now? As they drew ashore at a spot where the bushes parted to allow the rock to jut into the water, Jamie was about to inquire from the Indian youth what was the matter, and how he had managed to strike their trail again, at a moment when perhaps they most needed his presence, but a low "Hist!" which came from the dark figure upon the rock, silenced him. Evidently the lad had feared for their safety, and at great peril had come to save them, or at any rate to make them conscious of the approaching danger.
Silently, they landed on the margin of the forest, and crept ashore. The rustle of a leaf, the snapping of a twig might betray their presence to a lurking scout, though as yet they knew not what danger threatened.
"The Wacondah has made Swift Arrow his messenger, in order to save our scalps. Swift Arrow will now speak," whispered the hunter.
Then in a low, soft, musical voice, untouched by excitement at the nearness of danger, or emotion at seeing his friends again, the Indian pointed to the dark headland, scarce a hundred yards further along the lake, and said–
"Swift Arrow has kept watch for his friends. There is the Algonquin camp, and their scouts are close to us; watching both the lake and the forest. A singing-bird has spoken to them, and they think White Eagle is behind them. Before daybreak, they will enter the Seneca River, at the outlet of the lake, on their way back to the Canadas."
"But must we remain here till they are gone?" asked Jamie.
"No," smiled the youth. "Swift Arrow will now lead his paleface friends out of danger, and pilot them safely to the spot where the White Eagle awaits the Algonquins, at the portage by the Seneca Falls."
Saying this, he stepped into the canoe and took the paddle, motioning the others to lie down in the bottom of the craft, and then noiselessly pushed off from the bank. The Indian did not attempt to continue the former direction, but paddled cautiously back a little way, hugging the shore; then he struck directly across the lake, which is here about two miles broad, and having approached the opposite bank, he turned the head of the canoe once more towards the outlet of the lake, and paddled swiftly.
This manoeuvre succeeded perfectly, and they got away unobserved. Taking turns at the solitary paddle, they soon reached the outlet, and entered the swift stream which takes its name from the lake. Now they were piloted swiftly and safely past the rapids, aided only by the light of the stars, and the daring skill of the Indian.
Two hours before dawn, a dull roar fell upon their ears. It was the cataract, where the whole river tumbles in a frenzy of froth and foam down a chasm of fifty feet, forming the far-famed Seneca Falls.
The canoes were drawn to the bank at the portage, and as they stepped ashore, the dark, shadowy forms of several painted warriors emerged from the cover of the trees. They were the Iroquois scouts, who were keenly watching for the approach of the enemy. Then a powerful and haughty chief confronted them. It was the White Eagle himself, but the stern stoicism of his countenance relaxed for a moment as he greeted his two paleface friends.
"The paleface hunter is welcome to the camp of the Iroquois. Many moons have passed since White Eagle and his friend hunted the red deer, and struck the trail of the moose together," said the chief.
"The home of the Grey Badger is in the wigwams of the Iroquois, and when he has struck his Canada enemies, he will return to his seat at the council fire of the White Eagle," replied the hunter.
"Ugh! It is well! I feared that the Canada snakes had charmed away my friend, but then I remembered that the Grey Badger is too great a warrior to permit his scalp to hang upon the poles of their lodges."
"It was a mighty close shave this time, chief. I didn't expect to see my red friends again."
"Bah! The river is now netted for the Canada salmon. My braves will take 'plenty' scalp before another sunset. Come! My warriors will watch."
A couple of Indians took up the canoe and carried it to the other end of the portage, while several others eliminated from the soft bank the marks made by the bow of the boat and the prints of the moccasins. This precaution was adopted to prevent an alarm being given to the Algonquins, who were shortly expected. Then the party retired within the precincts of the forest, there to await the coming of the dawn.
Dawn came at last–towards the sun-rising a faint yellow streak lit up the horizon. Next, a saffron tint flushed the sky, and then the stars faded and disappeared, as the gates of the morning were unbarred, and a hundred streamers of flashing, roseate hues flooded the blue vault of heaven. Myriads of songsters awoke the stillness of the forest, for the day had come, and the dark curtain of night rolled westward.
Another two hours passed, and then the hawk-eyed vigilance of the watchers was rewarded by a first glimpse of the enemy. The dull, constant roar of the cataract in their ears prevented their hearing the sound of the approaching paddles, or the crunching of their birch-bark canoes upon the beach, but long ere this, the Iroquois scouts had reported the enemy in sight, and every one was ready for the approaching fight.
The portage was a short one, and the chief had spread his warriors over the whole length in order to prevent the escape of any of the Algonquins. A few scouts headed the party, then came the Indians carrying the five canoes, and after them, the two prisoners, their arms bound with thongs, walking between a couple of braves with tomahawks in their hands.
Every one now eagerly awaited the signal for the combat. The advance party had reached a point about half-way over the ground, when the shrill scream of an eagle rose in the air. At the same instant, the clatter of a dozen rifles, and the fierce war-cry of the thirty Iroquois, burst upon the ear. The very trees about the unfortunate Algonquins seemed to turn into frenzied warriors, who, brandishing their tomahawks, rushed upon their foe. The canoes were thrown to the ground, and in the confusion which followed, brave deeds were done. A fierce hand-to-hand fight ensued, but the Algonquins, mowed down by that first fire, and hopelessly outclassed, were driven nearer and nearer to that perilous brink, where leapt the mighty cataract into the foaming rapids and whirlpools below.
A few bold spirits, rather than leave their scalps in the hands of their enemies, leapt into the chasm beneath, and were never seen again. Except these, not a soul escaped the vengeance of the Iroquois.
The two braves in charge of the prisoners were the first to fall, for from their first landing they had been covered by the rifles of the hunter and Jamie. The latter then drew his hunting-knife from its sheath, and rushing forward, cut the thongs that bound the two prisoners, and quickly drew them out of the
mêlée
into a place of safety, and left the contest to the Iroquois, for he had no doubt whatever of what the result would be, and taking scalps was not exactly to his liking.
Meanwhile, the White Eagle wielded his tomahawk with all the strength and fury of an Iroquois chief. He fought his way to where Red Wolf was heading and encouraging his braves, and hewed him down. It was quickly over, and in less than a quarter of an hour the Iroquois were masters of the field.
"Thanks, Jamie! You have saved my life, and I can never repay you. I had given up all hope of escape. So rigidly were we watched that there was not the slightest opportunity for us to gain our freedom. We were to have been tortured and put to death at sunset, at soon as we had reached the shambles of Fort Oswego, for you know the French have taken the place, after a dreadful slaughter, and now claim to be masters of both shores of the lake. Still, all that is past now, and I am thankful to be with my friends once more. Jamie, old fellow, how can I thank you for all this?"
"You've had a narrow squeak, Jack, but you must thank the hunter here, and Swift Arrow, who I believe has not taken food since you were made a prisoner. Come!" and Jamie led his old comrade towards the others.
"Let me introduce you to the 'Great Paleface Hunter' who held your trail till the White Eagle could arrive with his braves."
"What! the Grey Badger, the friend of the chief?"
"The same. He is a mighty paleface, and I have learnt to love him already. He is the most renowned hunter in all the forests south of the lakes."
So, while the Indians harvested the spoils of the enemy, the three palefaces lit a fire, and cooked a breakfast from a large salmon, speared in the river below, satisfied the pangs of hunger at a spot a little apart from the braves, near by the lower end of the portage, and then talked for an hour about all the news that had filtered through the forest relative to the great conflict, which was already raging so fiercely on both banks of the St. Lawrence.
The youths listened with pent-up feelings, while the hunter told all he had heard from passing
voyageurs
and Indian runners of the disasters that had befallen the English arms of late. He described the disaster of Ticonderoga, the fall of Fort Oswego, and the partial success of Dieskau, but when he spoke of the capture of Fort William Henry and the frightful massacre which followed, the lads sprang to their feet, and declared in one breath–
"We will go and offer our services to General Wolfe, for our country needs us!"
The light of battle was in their eyes, the courage of manhood mounted to their brows, as they clasped each other's hand across the fire, and repeated their promise to join the English lines; then, turning to the trapper, who remained seated by the fire, smoking calmly and puffing the blue smoke from an Indian calumet, Jamie said–
"Say, hunter! Will you join us on yet another trail, where the game shall be, not redskins, but the recreants of Montcalm, and the reward, not Indian scalps, but the honour of the old flag, or–a soldier's grave?"
"Lads," he replied, "my country has not been over kind to me. I am an exile from my native land, and yet I have never committed a crime. My conscience is clear; but I, too, feel my country's call, and I know her need, and it shall never be said of me that I shirked the call of duty, when already so many exiles have left their bones to bleach in the forest, for the land that has denied to them a hearth and a home. I will go! Let us bid good-bye to the chief and his braves."
The parting scenes between the White Eagle and the hunter, the paleface youths and their Indian friends, was affecting in the extreme, when it became known that they were now about to part, and perhaps for ever. All the rich memories of their forest life were brought back to them, and to the palefaces especially the fidelity of their red brothers, their lofty characters, despite their many failings, their simple faith in the Great Spirit, the Wacondah of their race; their comradeship in hunting the red deer and the shaggy brown bear amid all the savage scenery of mountain and forest, and taking from the streams and lakes the salmon and the sturgeon, or descending wild rapids and torrents in their frail birch-bark canoes, with these children of the Manitou–all this they recalled, and forsook it with a pang of regret; but another voice was calling to them, and their beating hearts were but responding to the call of Duty.
At last, they stood by their canoe ready to depart, at the lower end of the portage, below the Falls; and the Indians were standing around them, sad and melancholy, for their grief had for once broken down their manly reserve, and the stoic mask, which had enabled some amongst them to endure torture without flinching, could not now keep back the moisture from many an eye.
Listen! the great chief, in prophetic strain, is speaking his last solemn words of farewell–
"The face of the Manitou is hid behind a cloud, and the hearts of his red children are sad. Nevermore will the Great Paleface Hunter, the friend of the White Eagle, hunt the deer in the hills of the Iroquois. Nevermore will he sit at the council fire of my people, and smoke the calumet, while his red brothers listen to the wisdom that falls from his lips like the dew from heaven. Nevermore will he speak to us of the sacred writings that the Wacondah has given to the children of the Sun-rising!
"When his canoe has sailed into the regions of the East-wind, then shall my people be scattered like the leaves in autumn, and the few that remain, to fish the streams and hunt the moose and the elk, will be but as blasted pines, where the fires of the forest have raged."
"Nay, chief! The sun will shine again, and I shall return if the Manitou wills it," urged the hunter, as he flicked the water impatiently with his paddle.
"The Wacondah has said it! My paleface brother shall nevermore look upon the face of the White Eagle."
"Then I shall look for my red friend in the happy hunting-grounds of the Manitou. Good-bye!"
The next moment the canoe shot into the stream, and began to descend rapidly towards the great lake. A last long look was cast behind, a last adieu waved to their friends, who stood watching till they passed from view, then the low murmur of the Falls ceased as they sped on their way.
Soon, they passed the ruins of Fort Oswego, and entered Lake Ontario. Then they stretched across the lake to the Thousand Islands, and entered the St. Lawrence and stole quietly past the French post at Fort Frontenac. Then for hundreds of miles they were carried by the swift current of the Canada River, down past Mont Royale, and the mouth of the Ottawa River, past Trois Rivières, until one day they heard the sounds of heavy firing, as though a battle were in progress.
'Twas early in September 1759, and the guns of Quebec were firing at the English ships and batteaux, as they passed the citadel, to gain the upper reaches of the river. As they passed the next bend in the river, they saw the French warships which had retreated up the stream, away from those terrible English. They also perceived on the heights to the left, in the vicinity of Cape Rouge, the sentries of Bougainville's detachment, and here they ran a narrow escape of capture, being taken by the French for spies.
Before sunset on the eleventh of September, they espied with great joy, on the southern bank, the white tents and the red coats of Wolfe's army.
CHAPTER XX
THE PLAINS OF ABRAHAM
"Halt! Who goes there?"
It was a burly Highlander, an outpost sentry of the British army, that challenged the three paleface scouts.
"Friends!" cried Jamie.
"Then ye'll just gi'e me the password," replied the soldier, levelling his musket at the youth who had acted as spokesman.
"I do not know the password," said Jamie, boldly confronting the levelled firearm. "We have just come in from the frontier to offer our services to General Wolfe."
"Then ye'll just ground your arms, and bide a wee, till I call the sergeant!"
The sergeant in charge of the party came up in response to the sentry's call, and while he was engaged in conversing with the strangers, an aide-de-camp to General Wolfe, who was a field officer in the Royal Americans, galloped by. Seeing three men in the garb of the forest, and knowing the value of such hardy, trained frontiersmen, having seen a good deal of such service himself, he reined in his charger, received the salute of the sergeant, who, on being requested, reported the business of the strangers.
"Look here! Do you fellows know anything of Quebec, or the river and the forts?" asked the field officer.
"Yes, sir!" replied Jamie. "Two of us lived there for nearly twelve months as nominal prisoners of the French."
"Indeed? When did you leave there?"
"Last spring, sir."
"Do you know the river this side of the city?"
"Every creek and cove, sir, between Cape Rouge and the narrows."
"That will do! Shoulder your rifles and come with me."
Then, putting as much dignity into their carriage as their rough appearance would permit, the three scouts followed the officer. They passed through several lines of sentries, but they were not challenged further, as the aide-de-camp gave the password at each barrier.
They soon entered the inner camp and passed between rows of white tents. Groups of Highlanders, Anstruthers, and Grenadiers in their scarlet uniforms were sitting about the camp-fires, seeing to their equipment, cooking rations, etc. Others were just landing from the transports and batteaux which lay in the river opposite the camp.
Despite their deer-skin shirts, Indian moccasins and beaver caps, there was a deep bronze upon the faces of the strangers, and a keen alertness about their movements, and especially their eyes, that bespoke them real scouts of the backwoods and pioneers of the Empire, with an experience that few could boast, even amongst those five thousand red-coats that were the flower of the British army; and many a soldier lifted his eyes to gaze after them as they passed by.
Having reached the vicinity of the General's tent, the field officer handed them over to an orderly of Monckton's Grenadiers, with orders to find them quarters and rations until the General expressed his pleasure concerning their offer of service.
All that day they remained in the camp, but no message came from the commander. Evidently he was busy with more important duties, and could not be bothered about the services of a few rude frontiersmen; but next morning, towards noon, the field officer returned in person and said–
"General Wolfe desires to speak with you. Come with me!"
Jamie's heart beat wildly at the thought of speaking with this great soldier, the darling and the genius of the whole army. They arrived at the large tent which served as the head-quarters of the staff. A sentry barred the way till the password was repeated, and then, following the officer, they entered, Jamie first, then Jack, and last of all the hunter.
All three quickly brought their hands to the salute as they stood before a large table, at which sat three officers of high rank. They were Generals Murray, Monckton and Townshend, and although unknown to the youths, who wondered which of the three was Wolfe, they have each left an honoured name on the scroll of Empire.
But who was that pale, ascetic-looking invalid, reclining on a couch beside General Murray? Surely he was no soldier! He was weak and sickly, and appeared to be suffering from some painful malady. What was he doing here? wondered Jamie, giving him a passing glance, and then directing his attention to the three officers, who were conversing amongst themselves, and examining charts and maps with such intensity that they scarcely seemed as yet to have noticed the newcomers.
Suddenly the invalid on the couch said something, and instantly the three soldiers ceased their conversation, dropped the charts and maps, and listened to his every word with marked reverence and respect.
"Murray," he said, "which are the two scouts who were prisoners in Quebec till last spring? Let them come to me."
The aide-de-camp indicated Jamie and Jack, and then General Murray approached them and said–
"Step forward! General Wolfe desires to speak with you," at the same time making a respectful gesture in the direction of the couch.
"General Wolfe! Could that feeble person be the great soldier on whom England relied to win the Canadas from the French?" thought Jamie, as he stepped forward and saluted the invalid. He was amazed and dumfounded. It was well for him at that moment that he had learnt something of the Indian virtue of hiding his feelings, or his face might have shown something of his disappointment.
"Why, you are quite a lad! Come, let me look at you! There, that will do! I like your face, and yours, too."
"Thank you, General!"
"Now tell me what you know of Quebec, and when you landed there, and when you left, and how."
Then Jamie, acting as spokesman for the two, told him briefly but clearly his history, commencing with the sea-fight, his capture, and how he spent his time at Quebec, his adventure with the Iroquois on the St. Lawrence, and his escape by the steep pathway that led up on to the Plains of Abraham, and how that Jack had accompanied him in that and all the other adventures he had met with on the frontiers.
"Good!" exclaimed the General, into whose eyes the fire had leapt as the lad described his adventures, especially the fight with the French frigate.
"Pass me that chart of the river and the Plains, Monckton. There, that will do! Just show me, lad, the spot where you landed that day and climbed to the Plains. Here, take hold of this chart!"
Jamie took the chart, spread it out on the ground, and knelt down by the couch.
"There," he said, pointing to a tiny dent in the northern shore, "is the spot where we made our escape. It is a league or so above the city."
"And if I sent you down there with a boat in the dark, could you find it again?" said the General in a soft voice.
"Yes, sir, I could!"
"And if I ordered you to land a boat-load of soldiers on the top of the cliffs there before dawn to-morrow morning, how would you set about it?"
Jamie flushed with pride at the thought of such a commission, but he answered quietly and firmly–
"General, if you trusted that boat to me I would wait till the second ebb tide to-night, then, under cover of darkness, I would drop down with the current, keeping in mid-stream till nearly opposite the cove, then, edging in to the northern bank, I would run the boat ashore at the inlet, and lead the men up on to the Plains two hours before dawn."
"By George, Townshend, he'll do! Let him have a seat in the first boat, and his companions too. But see that they are kept in charge of the orderly, and not permitted outside the lines till I send for them."
"Yes, sir."
"By the way, Monckton, is there a guard at that point above the cove?"
"Vergois' guard is stationed there, sir. It is part of Bougainville's command."
"My lad," said the General, half rising from the couch and putting his hand on Jamie's shoulder, "it is a very important duty that I am entrusting to you to-night. I am going to put you in the first boat, along with the other guides, as your knowledge of the spot may be useful, and it is of the first importance that we should not pass that cove in the darkness. The safety of the British army, to a great extent, will be entrusted to you, and perhaps–who knows?–the destiny of Canada. You will be kept under the charge of the orderly till nightfall, as there are plenty of spies about the camp. If you do your duty this night, your King and your country will be grateful to you. Good-bye!"
Darkness came at length on that famous 12th of September, 1759, and as soon as the northern bank disappeared in the gloom of evening, the English camp was astir with quiet and concealed movements. Only to a few was the plan of campaign known, for in the rapidity and secrecy of the movement lay the only chance of success–for against the English the odds were desperate. Wolfe, however, was so far recovered from his sickness that he was able to command in person, and the inspiration that this knowledge gave to the men was equivalent to the addition of an army corps.
An officer who took part in the events of that night has left it on record that despite the reverse at the Montmorency six weeks before, "the men were uncommonly eager and difficult to restrain, and yet," he added, speaking to a comrade a few hours before the event, "if we succeed in scaling and capturing that rock-crowned citadel, I shall think little in future of Hannibal leading his army over the Alps."
At nine o'clock thirty boats collected from the warships and transports, rendezvoused in a line in front of Admiral Holmes' flagship. Then the last "general order" issued by Wolfe was read to the troops by the generals in command. It contained these striking words–
"Now is the time to strike a stroke which will determine the fate of Canada."
Then fifteen hundred men, the forlorn hope of the expedition, selected chiefly from the Highlanders, the Anstruthers and the Light Infantry, were crowded into the boats, and now nothing remained but the final issue, as the troops calmly waited for the second ebb tide, which was to carry them down-stream.
At one o'clock the tide ebbed, and the order was given to cast off. Not a soldier or a sailor remained behind who was not cursing his ill-luck that he had not been chosen to go ahead in the boats. The order had been given for silence, and nothing could be heard but the gurgling of the water as it washed the sides of the boats; but the excitement, though suppressed, must have been intense as the men grasped their muskets and lay close together, looking at the stars above or those rugged heights, which ever and anon loomed darkly from the northern shore.
Jamie, with his two companions, was in the first boat eagerly scanning that dark outline and noting every headland, watching for that little indentation just between St. Nichol and Le Foulton, where he and Jack had so often landed their little fishing canoe during their enforced stay in Quebec.
Suddenly a low voice broke upon their ears from the stern sheets of the next boat, which was only a dozen feet away. It was the voice of Wolfe reciting to his officers and to a young midshipman, named Robinson, who has left the incident on record. He was quoting from memory the stanzas from "Gray's Elegy"–
"The paths of glory lead but to the grave."
"Gentlemen," Jamie heard him say, "I would rather have written those lines than take Quebec to-morrow." And every English schoolboy now knows how strangely prophetic and appropriate were those lines.
They were now rapidly approaching the little cove, and Jamie signalled to the steersman of his boat to edge in a little closer to the northern shore, which now towered above them like a great barrier. As he did so the voice of a sentry came through the gloom from the heights above–
"
Qui vive?
"
"
La France!
" replied a captain of the Highlanders from Jamie's boat.
"
A quel régiment?
" came back from the heights.
"
De la Reine!
" answered the Highlander.
The sentry appeared satisfied, as the Queen's regiment formed part of Bougainville's command, which had been sent further up the bank in order to watch Wolfe's movements.
Shortly afterwards they were challenged again, but a few more adroit answers saved the situation.
"This is the spot," whispered Jamie, and the boat was run upon the bank in the little sandy cove beneath the cliffs, and a hundred men were quickly clustered upon the little beach. Wolfe was amongst the first to land, and as he looked up at the rugged heights he shook his head and coolly remarked–
"You can try it, but I don't think you'll get up."
The next moment Jamie and his companions, closely followed by twenty volunteers, were climbing the precipitous front, dragging themselves up by the roots and branches of the shrubs and trees which overhung the steep ascent. For another moment those below waited with breathless suspense. Then quick, ringing shots were heard, as those few determined men overpowere