Neville Trueman, the Pioneer Preacher : a tale of the war of 1812 / Withrow, W. H. (William Henry)

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Title: Neville Trueman the Pioneer Preacher

Author: William Henry Withrow

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NEVILLE TRUEMAN,

THE

PIONEER PREACHER.

A TALE OF THE WAR OF 1812.

BY THE

REV. W. H. WITHROW, M.A.




TO THE

REV. EGERTON RYERSON, D.D., LL.D.,

WHOSE LONG LIFE

HAS BEEN DEVOTED TO THE SERVICE OF HIS COUNTRY,

THIS

"Story of the War,"

WHOSE HISTORY

HE HAS WITH GRAPHIC PEN RECORDED,

IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED

BY

THE AUTHOR.

[Illustration]




PREFACE.


In this short story an attempt has been made--with what success
the reader must judge--to present certain phases of Canadian life
during the heroic struggle against foreign invasion, which first
stirred in our country the pulses of that common national life,
which has at length attained a sturdier strength in the
confederation of the several provinces of the Dominion of Canada.
It will he found, we think, that the Canadian Methodism of those
troublous times was not less patriotic than pious. While our
fathers feared God, they also honoured the King, and loved their
country; and many of them died in its defence. Reverently let us
mention their names. Lightly let us tread upon their ashes.
Faithfully let us cherish their memory. And sedulously let us
imitate their virtues.

A good deal of pains has been taken by the careful study of the
most authentic memoirs, documents, and histories referring to the
period; by personal examination of the physical aspect of the
scene of the story; and by frequent conversations with some of the
principal actors in the stirring drama of the time--most of whom,
alas! have now passed away--to give a verisimilitude to the
narrative that shall, it is hoped, reproduce in no distorted
manner this memorable period.

W. H. W.

TORONTO, March 1st, 1880.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]




CONTENTS.


CHAPTER I.

War Clouds

CHAPTER II.

The Eve of Battle

CHAPTER III.

Queenston Heights

CHAPTER IV.

The Wages of War

CHAPTER V.

A Victory and its Cost

CHAPTER VI.

The Capture of York

CHAPTER VII.

The Fall of Fort George

CHAPTER VIII.

The Fortunes of War

CHAPTER IX.

A Brave Woman's Exploit

CHAPTER X.

Disasters and Triumphs

CHAPTER XI.

Elder Case in War Time

CHAPTER XII.

A Dark Tragedy--The Burning of Niagara

CHAPTER XIII.

A Stern Nemesis--A Ravaged Frontier

CHAPTER XIV.

Toronto of Old

CHAPTER XV.

A Quarterly Meeting in the Olden Time

CHAPTER XVI.

The "Protracted Meeting"

CHAPTER XVII.

Heart Trials.

CHAPTER XVIII.

The Tragedy of War.

CHAPTER XIX.

Chippewa and Lundy's Lane.

CHAPTER XX.

The Closing of the War.

CHAPTER XXI.


Closing Scenes. NEVILLE TRUEMAN, THE PIONEER PREACHER [Footnote:
The principal authorities consulted for the historical portion of
this story are:--Tupper's Life and Letters of Sir Isaac Brock,
Auchinleck's and other histories of the War, and Carroll's,
Bangs', and Playter's references to border Methodism at the period
described. Many of the incidents, however, are derived from the
personal testimony of prominent actors in the stirring drama of
the time, but few of whom still linger on the stage. For reasons
which will be obvious, the personality of some of the characters
of the story is Slightly veiled under assumed names.]




CHAPTER I.

WAR CLOUDS.


  Now lower the dreadful clouds of war;
  Its threatening thunder rolls afar;
  Near and more near the rude alarms
  Of conflict and the clash of arms
  Advance and grow, till all the air
  Rings with the brazen trumpet blare.


Towards the close of a sultry day in July, in the year 1812, might
have been seen a young man riding along the beautiful west bank of
the Niagara River, about three miles above its mouth. His
appearance would anywhere have attracted attention. He was small
in person and singularly neat in his attire. By exposure to
summer's sun and winter's cold, his complexion was richly bronzed,
but, as he lifted his broad-leafed felt hat to cool his brow, it
could be seen that his forehead was smooth and white and of a
noble fulness, indicating superior intellectual abilities. His
hair was dark,

    --his eye beneath
  Flashed like falchion from its sheath.


His bright, quick glances, alternating with a full and steady
gaze, betokened a mind keenly sympathetic with emotions both of
sorrow and of joy. His dress and accoutrements were those of a
travelling Methodist preacher of the period. He wore a suit of
"parson's grey," the coat having a straight collar and being
somewhat rounded away in front. His buckskin leggings, which
descended to his stirrups, were splashed with mud, for the day had
been rainy. He was well mounted on a light-built, active-looking
chestnut horse. The indispensable saddle-bags, containing his
Greek Testament, Bible, and Wesley's Hymns, and a few personal
necessaries, were secured across the saddle. A small, round,
leathern valise, with a few changes of linen, and his coarse
frieze great-coat were strapped on behind. Such was a typical
example of the "clerical cavalry" who, in the early years of this
century, ranged through the wilderness of Canada, fording or
swimming rivers, toiling through forests and swamps, and carrying
the gospel of Christ to the remotest settlers in the backwoods.

Our young friend, the Rev. Neville Trueman, afterwards a prominent
figure in the history of early Methodism, halted his horse on a
bluff jutting out into the Niagara River, both to enjoy the
refreshing breeze that swept over the water and to admire the
beautiful prospect. At his feet swept the broad and noble river,
reflecting on its surface the snowy masses of "thunderhead"
clouds, around which the lightning still played, and which,
transfigured and glorified in the light of the setting sun, seemed
to the poetic imagination of the young man like the City of God
descending out of heaven, with its streets of gold and foundations
of precious stones, while the rainbow that spanned the heavens
seemed like the rainbow of the Apocalypse round about the throne
of God.

Under the inspiration of the beauty of the scene, the young
preacher began to sing in a clear, sweet, tenor voice that song of
the ages, which he had learned at his mother's knee among the
green hills of Vermont--

  Jerusalem the golden,
    With milk and honey blest,
  Beneath thy contemplation,
    Sink heart and voice opprest,

  I know not, oh! I know not
    What joys await me there;
  What radiancy of glory,
    What bliss beyond compare.

  They stand, those walls of Zion,
    All jubilant with song,
  And bright with many an angel,
    And all the martyr throng.

  With jasper glow thy bulwarks,
    Thy streets with emeralds blaze,
  The sardius and the topaz
    Unite in thee their rays.

  Thine ageless walls are bonded
    With amethyst unpriced;

  The saints build up its fabric,
    The corner-stone is Christ.

[Footnote: We cannot resist the temptation to give a few lines of
the original hymn of Bernard of Clugny, a Breton monk of English
parentage of the 12th century--"the sweetest of all the hymns of
heavenly homesickness of the soul," and for generations one of the
most familiar, through translations, in many languages. The rhyme
and rhythm are so difficult, that the author was able to master
it, he believed, only by special inspiration of God.

  Urbs Syon aurea, patria lactea, cive decora,
  Omne cor obruis, omnibus obstruis et cor et ora,
  Nescio, nescio, quae jubilatio, lux tibi qualis,
  Quam socialia gaudia, gloria quam specialis.]

For a moment longer he gazed upon the broad, flowing river which
divided two neighbouring peoples, one in language, in blood, in
heroic early traditions, and the common heirs of the grandest
literature the world has ever seen, yet severed by a deep, wide,
angry-flowing stream of strife, which, dammed up for a time, was
about to burst forth in a desolating flood that should overwhelm
and destroy some of the fairest fruits of civilization in both
countries. As he gazed northward, he beheld, on the eastern bank
of the river, the snowy walls and grass-grown ramparts of Fort
Niagara, above which floated proudly the stars and stripes.

As he gazed on the ancient fort, the memories of its strange
eventful history came thronging on his mind from the time that La
Salle thawed the frozen ground in midwinter to plant his
palisades, to the time that the gallant Prideaux lay mangled in
its trenches by the bursting of a cohorn--on the very eve of
victory. These memories have been well expressed in graphic verse
by a living Canadian poet--a denizen of the old borough of
Niagara. [Footnote: William Kirby, Esq., in CANADIAN METHODIST
MAGAZINE for May, 1878.]

  Two grassy points--not promontories--front
  The calm blue lake--the river flows between,
  Bearing in its full bosom every drop
  Of the wild flood that leaped the cataract.
  And swept the rock-walled gorge from end to end.
  'Mid flanking eddies, ripples, and returns,
  It rushes past the ancient fort that once
  Like islet in a lonely ocean stood,
  A mark for half a world of savage woods;
  With war and siege and deeds of daring wrought
  Into its rugged walls--a history
  Of heroes, half forgotten, writ in dust.

  Two centuries deep lie the foundation stones,
  La Salle placed there, on his adventurous quest
  Of the wild regions of the boundless west;
  Where still the sun sets on his unknown grave.
  Three generations passed of war and peace;
  The Bourbon lilies grew; brave men stood guard;
  And braver still went forth to preach and teach
  Th' evangel, in the forest wilderness,
  To men fierce as the wolves whose spoils they wore.

  Then came a day of change. The summer woods
  Were white with English tents, and sap and trench
  Crept like a serpent to the battered walls.
  Prideaux lay dead 'mid carnage, smoke, and fire
  Before the Gallic drums beat parley--then
  Niagara fell, and all the East and West
  Did follow: and our Canada was won.

As the sun sank beneath the horizon, the flag slid down the
halyards, and the sullen roar of the sunset gun boomed over the
wave, and was echoed back by the dense forest wall around and by
the still low-hanging clouds overhead. A moment later the British
gun of Fort George, on the opposite side of the river, but
concealed from the spectator by a curve in the shore, loudly
responded, as if in haughty defiance to the challenge of a foe.

Turning his horse's head, the young man rode rapidly down the
road, beneath a row of noble chestnuts, and drew rein opposite a
substantial-looking, brick farmhouse, but with such small windows
as almost to look like a casematad fortress. Dismounting, he threw
his horse's bridle over the hitching-post at the gate, and passed
through a neat garden, now blooming with roses and sweet peas, to
the open door of the house. He knocked with his riding-whip on the
door jamb, to which summons a young lady, dressed in a neat calico
gown and swinging in her hand a broad-leafed sunhat, replied.
Seeing a stranger, she dropped a graceful "courtesy,"--which is
one of the lost arts now-a-days,--and put up her hand to brush
back from her face her wealth of clustering curls, somewhat
dishevelled by the exercise of raking in the hayfield.

"Is this the house of Squire Drayton?" asked Neville, politely
raising his hat.

The young lady, for such she evidently was, though so humbly
dressed--_simplex munditiis_--replied that it was, and
invited the stranger into the large and comfortable sitting-room,
which bore evidence of refinement, although the carpet was of
woven rags and much of the furniture was home-made.

"I have a letter to him from Elder Ryan," said Neville, presenting
a document elaborately folded, after the manner of epistolary
missives of the period.

"Oh, you're the new presiding elder, are you?" asked the lady. "We
heard you were coming."

"No, not the presiding elder," said Neville, smiling at the
unwonted dignity attributed to him, "and not even an elder at all;
but simply a Methodist preacher on trial--a junior, who may be an
elder some day."

"Excuse me," said the young lady, blushing at her mistake. "Father
has just gone to the village for his paper, but will be back
shortly. Zenas, take the preacher's horse," she continued to a
stout lad who had just come in from the hayfield.

"I will help him," said Neville, proceeding with the boy. It was
the almost invariable custom of the pioneer preachers to see that
their faithful steeds were groomed and fed, before they attended
to their own wants.

Miss Katherine Drayton--this was the young lady's name--was the
eldest daughter of Squire Drayton, of The Holms, as the farm was
called, from the evergreen oaks that grew upon the riverbank. Her
mother having been dead for some years, Katherine had the
principal domestic management of the household. This duty, with
its accompanying cares, had given her a self-reliance and maturity
of character beyond her years. She deftly prepared a tasteful
supper for the new guest, set out with snowy napery and with the
seldom-used, best china.

"Hello! what's up now?" asked her father, cheerily, as he entered
the door. He is worth looking at as he stands on the threshold,
almost filling the doorway with his large and muscular frame. He
had a hearty, ruddy, English look, a frank and honest expression
in his light blue eyes, and an impulsiveness of manner that
indicated a temper--

  That carries anger as the flint bears fire,
  Which much enforced, showeth a hasty spark,
  And straight is cold again.

He was not a Methodist, but his dead wife had been one, and for
her sake, and because he had the instincts of a gentleman, of
respect to the ministerial character, he extended a hospitable
welcome to the travelling Methodist preachers, who were almost the
only ministers in the country except the clergyman of the English
Church in the neighbouring village of Niagara.

"The new preacher has come, father. He brought this letter from
Elder Ryan," said Katherine, handing him the missive.

The Squire glanced over it and said, "Any one that Elder Ryan
introduces is welcome to this house. He is a right loyal
gentleman, if he did come from the States. I am afraid, though,
that the war will make it unpleasant for most of those Yankee
preachers."

"Why, father, is there any bad news?" anxiously inquired the young
girl.

"Ay! that there is," he replied, taking from his pocket the
_York Gazette_, which had just reached Niagara, three or four
days after the date of publication.

Here the young preacher returned to the house, and was cordially
welcomed by the Squire. When mutual greetings were over, "This is
a bad business," continued the host, unfolding the meagre,
greyish-looking newspaper. "I feared it would come to this, ever
since that affair of the _Little Belt_ and _President_
last year. There is nothing John Bull is so sensitive about as his
ships, and he can't stand defeat on the high seas."

"War is not declared, I hope," said Neville, with much
earnestness.

"Yes, it is," replied the Squire, "and what's more, Hull has
crossed the Detroit River with three thousand men. [Footnote:
Rumour had somewhat exaggerated the number of his force. It was
only twenty-five hundred.] Here is part of his proclamation. He
offers 'peace, liberty, and security,' or, 'war, slavery, and
destruction.' Confound his impudence," exclaimed the choleric
farmer, striking his fist on the table till the dishes rattled
again. "He may whistle another tune before he is much older."

"What'll Brock do, father?" exclaimed Zenas, who had listened with
a boy's open-mouthed astonishment to the exciting news.

"He'll be even with him, I'se warrant," replied the burly Squire.
"He will hasten to the frontier through the Long Point country,
gathering up the militia and Indians as he goes. They are serving
out blankets and ammunition at the fort to-night. I saw Brant at
Navy Hall. He would answer for his two hundred tomahawks from the
Credit and Grand River; and Tecumseh, he said, would muster as
many more. We'll soon hear good news from the front. The
Commissary has given orders for the victualling of Fort George. We
are to take in all our hay and oats, beef cattle, and flour next
week."

"O Father, mayn't I go with Brock"? exclaimed the young enthusiast
Zenas, "I'm old enough."

"We may soon be busy enough here, my son. No place is more exposed
than this frontier. The garrisons at Forts Porter and Niagra are
being strengthened, and I could see the Yankee militia drilling as
I rode to the village."

"Hurrah!" shouted the thoughtless boy, "won't it be fun? We'll
show them how the Britishers can fight."

"God grant, my son," said the farmer solemnly, "that we may not
see more fighting than we wish. I've lived through one bloody war
and I never want to see another. But if fight we must for our
country, fight we will."

"And I'm sure none more bravely than Zenas Drayton," said
Katherine proudly, laying her hand on her brother's head.

"You ought to have been a boy, Kate," said her father admiringly.
"You've got all your mother's pluck."

"I'd be ashamed if I wouldn't stand up for my country, father: I
feel as if I could carry a musket myself."

"You can do better, Kate: you can make your country worth brave
men dying for," and he fondly kissed her forehead, while something
like a tear glistened in his eyes.

For a time Neville Trueman mused without speaking, as if the prey
of conflicting emotions. At last he said with solemn emphasis, "My
choice is made: I cast in my lot with my adopted country. I
believe this invasion of a peaceful territory by an armed host is
a wanton outrage and cannot have the smile of Heaven. I daresay I
shall encounter obloquy and suspicion from both sides, but I must
obey my conscience."

"Young man, I honour your choice," exclaimed the Squire
effusively, grasping his hand with energy. "I know what it is to
leave home, and kindred, and houses and lands for loyalty to my
conscience and my King. I left as fair an estate as there was in
the Old Dominion because I could not live under any other flag
than the glorious Union Jack under which I was born. It was a
dislocating wrench to tear myself away from the home of my
childhood and the graves of my parents for an unknown wilderness.
Much were we tossed about by sea and land. Our ship was wrecked
and its passengers strewn like seaweed on the Nova Scotia coast--
some living and some dead--and at last, after months of travel and
privation, on foot, in ox carts and in Durham boats, we found our
way, I and a few neighbours, to this spot, to hew out new homes in
the forest and keep our oath of allegiance to our King."

The old U. E. Loyalist always grew eloquent as he referred to his
exile for conscience' sake and to the planting by the conscript
fathers of Canada of a new Troy under the aegis of British power.

"_I_ came of regular Yankee stock," said Mr. Trueman. "My
mother was a Neville--one of the Nevilles of Boston. She heard
Jesse Lee's first sermon on Boston Common, and joined the first
Methodist society in the old Bay State. My father was one of Ethan
Allen's Green Mountain Boys, and assisted at the capture of
Ticonderoga. He was also a volunteer at Bunker Hill. It was then
he met my mother, being billeted at her father's house."

"You have rebel blood in you and no mistake," said the Squire.

"I believe the colonists were right in resisting oppression in
'76," continued Neville; "but I believe they are wrong in invading
Canada now, and I wash my hands of all share in their crime."

"We will not quarrel about the old war," said the veteran
loyalist. "The _Gazette_ here says that many of your
countrymen agree with you about the new one. At the declaration of
hostilities the flags of the shipping at Boston were placed at
half-mast and a public meeting denounced the war as ruinous and
unjust."

"I foresee a long and bloody strife," said Neville.

"Neither country will yield without a tremendous struggle. It is
ungenerous to attack Great Britain now, when, as the champion of
human liberty, she is engaged in a death-wrestle with the arch
despot Napoleon."

"But Wellington will soon thrash Boney," interjected Zenas, who
was an ardent admirer of the Peninsular hero, "and then his
redcoats will polish off the Yankees, won't they, father?"

"If you had seen as much of the horrors of war, my boy, as I have,
you would not be so eager for it. God forbid it should deluge this
frontier with blood; but if it do, old as I am, I will shoulder
the old Brown Bess there above the fireplace that your grandfather
bore at Brandywine and Yorktown."

"What I dread most is the effect on religion," said Trueman.
"Several of the Methodist preachers are, like myself, American-
born, and we all are stationed by an American bishop. I am afraid
many will go back to the States, and all will be liable to
suspicion as disloyal to this country by the bigoted and
prejudiced. But I shall not forsake my post, nor leave these
people as sheep without a shepherd. If there is to be war and
bloodshed and wounds and sudden death on this frontier circuit,
they will need a preacher all the more, and, God helping me, I'll
not desert them.

"I am a man of peace, and fight not with worldly weapons, but I
can, perhaps, help those who do."

"God bless you for that speech, my brave lad," exclaimed the
Squire. "Nobody questions _my_ loyalty, and if need arise,
I'll give you a paper, signed with my name as a magistrate, that
will protect you from harm."

Kate had sat quiet, busily sewing, during this conversation, but
her heightened colour and her quickened breathing bore witness
that she was no uninterested listener. With a look of deep
gratitude, she quietly said, "We are all very much obliged to you,
Mr. Neville, for your noble resolve."

The young man thought that grateful look ample compensation for
the mental sacrifice that he had made, and an inspiration to
unfaltering fidelity in carrying it into effect.

The next morning all was bustle and excitement at the farmhouse.
"All hands were piped," to use a sea phrase, to aid in the
revictualling of the fort, the orders for which were urgent.
Breakfast was served in the huge kitchen, the squire, his guest,
his children, and the hired men all sitting at the same table,
like a feudal lord, with his men-at-arms, in an old baronial hall.

"Father," said Zenas, "Tom Loker and Sandy McKay have gone off
with the militia. They went to the village last night and signed
the muster-roll. I saw them marching past with some more of the
boys and the redcoats early this morning."

"I saw them, too," said the squire. "They needn't have given me
the slip that way. It will leave me short-handed; but I wouldn't
have said nay if they wanted to go."

After breakfast Neville mounted his horse and rode off to the
place appointed for holding the Methodist Conference,--the new
meeting-house near St. David's. He soon overtook the detachment of
militia, which was marching to join, at Long Point, the main force
which Brock was to lead thither from York by way of Ancaster. He
noticed that the men, though tolerably well armed, were very
indifferently shod for their long tramp over rough roads. They had
no pretence to uniform save a belt and cartouch box, and a blanket
rolled up tightly and worn like a huge scarf. As He walked his
horse for awhile beside Tom Loker who had groomed his horse the
night before, he told him what the squire had said about his
joining the militia.

"Did he now?" said Tom. "Then my place will be open for me when I
return. We'll be back time enough to help run in that beef and pork
into the fort, won't we, Sandy?"

"That's as God pleases," said the Scotchman, a sturdy, grave-
visaged man. "Ilka bullet has its billet; an' gin we're to coom
back, back we'll coom, though it rained bullets all the way."

Neville bade them God speed and rode on to "Warner's meeting-
house," as it was called. It was a large frame structure, utterly
devoid of ornament, near the roadside. "Hitching" his horse to the
fence, he went in. A meagre handful of Methodist preachers were
present--not more than a dozen--indeed, the entire number in the
province was very little more than that. In the chair, in front of
the quaint, old-fashioned pulpit, which the present writer has
often occupied, sat a man who would attract attention anywhere. He
was nearly six feet in height, and of very muscular development;
indeed tradition asserted that he had once been a prize-fighter.
His dark hair was closely cut, which increased his resemblance to
that especially unclerical and un-Methodistic character. This was
the Rev. Henry Ryan, the Presiding Elder of the Upper Canada
District--extending from Brockville to the Detroit River.
[Footnote: The whole of Lower Canada formed another district, of
which the celebrated Nathan Bangs was at that time Presiding
Elder.] In a full rich voice, in which the least shade of an Irish
accent could be discerned, he was addressing the little group of
men before him. The ministers labouring in Canada had expected to
meet their American brethren; but, on account of the outbreak of
the war, the latter had remained on their own side of the river,
and held their Conference near Rochester, New York State. The
bishop, however, appointed the Canadian ministers to their
circuits, but the relations of Methodism in the two countries were
almost entirely interrupted during the war. A few of the ministers
labouring in Canada obeyed what they conceived the dictates of
prudence, and returned to the United States; but the most of them,
although cut off from fellowship, and largely from sympathy with
the Conference and Church by which they were appointed, continued
steadfast at their posts and loyal to the institutions of the
country, notwithstanding the obloquy, suspicion, and persecution
to which they were often subjected. In this course they were
greatly sustained and encouraged by the unfaltering faith and
energy of Elder Ryan, who, though subsequently in his history he
became a religious agitator, was at this period a most zealous and
effective preacher, one who, in the words of Bishop Hedding,
"laboured as if the thunders of the day of judgment were to follow
each sermon." During the agitations and civil convulsions by which
the country was disturbed, he continued to meet the preachers in
annual conference, and endeavoured to maintain the ecclesiastical
organization of Methodism till it was permitted to renew its
relations with the mother Church of the United States.

On the present occasion, Elder Ryan gave a rousing exhortation,
like the address of a general on the eve of a battle, that
inspired courage in every heart. Then followed a few hours of
deliberation and mutual council on the course to be adopted in the
critical circumstances of the time. Certain prudential
arrangements were made for maintaining the connexional unity of
the Church under the stress of disorganizing influences, and
certain provisions effected for the unforeseen contingencies of
the war. Then, after commending one another to God in fervent
prayer, and invoking His guidance of their lives and His blessing
on their labours, they sang that noble battle hymn and marching
song of Charles Wesley's:--

  In flesh we part awhile,
    But still in spirit joined,
  To embrace the happy toil
    Thou hast to each assigned;
  And while we do Thy blessed will,
    We bear our heaven about us still.

They looked like a forlorn hope, like a despised and feeble
remnant, but they were animated with the spirit of a conquering
army. With many a hearty wring of the hand and fervent "God bless
you!" and, not without eyes suffused with tears, they took their
leave of one another, and fared forth on their lonely ways to
their remote and arduous fields of toil.




CHAPTER II.

THE EVE OF BATTLE.


The next scene of our story opens on the eve of an eventful day in
the annals of Canada. About sunset in an October afternoon,
Neville Trueman reached The Holms, after a long and weary ride
from the western end of his circuit, which reached nearly to the
head of Lake Ontario. The forest was gorgeous in its autumnal
foliage, like Joseph in his coat of many colours. The corn still
stood thick, in serried ranks, in the fields, no longer plumed and
tasseled like an Indian chief, but rustling, weird-like, as an
army of spectres in the gathering gloom. The great yellow pumpkins
gleamed like huge nuggets of gold in some forest Eldorado. The
crimson patches of ripened buckwheat looked like a blood-stained
field of battle: alas! too true an image of the deeper stains
which were soon to dye the greensward of the neighbouring height.

The change from the bleak moor, over which swept the chill north
wind from the lonely lake, to the genial warmth of Squire
Drayton's hospitable kitchen was most agreeable. A merry fire of
hickory wood on the ample hearth--it was long before the time of
your close, black, surly-looking kitchen stoves--snapped and
sparkled its hearty welcome to the travel-worn guest. It was a
rich Rembrant-like picture that greeted Neville as he entered the
room. The whole apartment was flooded with light from the leaping
flames which was flashed back from the brightly-scoured milk-pans
and brass kettles on the dresser--not unlike, thought he, to the
burnished shields and casques of the men-at-arms in an old feudal
hall.

The fair young mistress, clad in a warm stuff gown, with a snowy
collar and a crimson necktie, moved gracefully through the room,
preparing the evening meal. Savoury odours proceeded from a pan
upon the coals, in which were frying tender cutlets of venison--
now a luxury, then, in the season, an almost daily meal.

The burly squire basked in the genial blaze, seated in a rude
home-made armchair, the rather uncomfortable-looking back and arms
of which were made of cedar roots, with the bark removed, like our
garden rustic seats. Such a chair has Cowper in his "Task"
described,--

            "Three legs upholding firm
  A messy slab, in fashion square or round.
  On such a stool immortal Alfred sat,
  And swayed the sceptre of his infant realms:
  And such in ancient halls may still be found."

At his feet crouched Lion, the huge staghound, at times half
growling in his sleep, as if in dreams he chased the deer, and
then, starting up, he licked his master's hand and went to sleep
again.

On the opposite side of the hearth, Zenas was crouched upon the
floor, laboriously shaping an ox-yoke with a spoke-shave. For in
those days Canadian farmers were obliged to make or mend almost
everything they used upon the farms.

Necessity, which is the mother of invention, made them deft and
handy with axe and adze, bradawl and waxed end, anvil and forge.
The squire himself was no mean blacksmith, and could shoe a horse,
or forge a plough coulter, or set a tire as well as the village
Vulcan at Niagara.

"Right welcome," said the squire, as he made room for Neville near
the fireplace, while Katherine gave him a quieter greeting and
politely relieved him of his wrappings. "Well, what's the news
outside?" he continued, we must explain that as Niagara, next to
York and Kingston, was the largest settlement in the province, it
rather looked down upon the population away from "the front," as
it was called, as outsiders almost beyond the pale of
civilization.

"No news at all," replied Neville, "but a great anxiety to hear
some. When I return from the front, they almost devour me with
questions."

The early Methodist preachers, in the days when newspapers or
books were few and scarce, and travel almost unknown, were in one
respect not unlike the wandering minstrels or trouveres, not to
say the Homeric singers of an earlier day. Their stock of news,
their wider experience, their intelligent conversation, and their
sacred minstrelsy procured them often a warm welcome and a night's
lodging outside of Methodist circles. They diffused much useful
information, and their visits dispelled the mental stagnation
which is almost sure to settle upon an isolated community. The
whole household gathering around the evening fire, hung with eager
attention upon their lips as, from their well-stored minds, they
brought forth things new and old. Many an inquisitive boy or girl
experienced a mental awakening or quickening by contact with their
superior intelligence; and many a toil-worn man and woman renewed
the brighter memories of earlier years as the preacher brought
them glimpses of the outer world, or read from some well-worn
volume carried in his saddle-bags pages of some much-prized
English classic.

"Well, there has been news in plenty along the line here," said
the squire, "and likely soon to be more. The Americans have been
massing their forces at Forts Porter, Schlosser, and Niagara, and
we expect will be attempting a crossing somewhere along the river
soon."

"They'll go back quicker than they came, I guess, as they did at
Sandwich," said Zenas, who took an enthusiastically patriotic view
of the prowess of his countrymen.

"I reckon the 'Mericans feel purty sore over that business," said
Tom Loker, who, with Sandy McKay, had come in, and, in the
unconventional style of the period, had drawn up their seats to
the fire. "They calkilated they'd gobble up the hull of Canada;
but 'stead of that, they lost the hull State of Michigan an' their
great General Hull into the bargain," and he chuckled over his
play upon words, after the manner of a man who has uttered a
successful pun.

"You must tell us all about it," said Neville: "I have not heard
the particulars yet."

"After supper," said the squire. "We'll discuss the venison first
and the war afterwards," and there was a general move to the
table.

When ample justice had been done to the savoury repast, Miss
Katherine intimated that a good fire had been kindled in the
Franklin stove in the parlour, and, in honour of the guest,
proposed an adjournment thither.

The squire, however, looked at the leaping flames of the kitchen
fire as if reluctant to leave it, and Neville asked as a favour to
be allowed to bask, "like a cat in the sun," he said, before it.

"I'm glad you like the old-fashioned fires," said the farmer.
"They're a-most like the camp-fire beside which we used to bivouac
when I went a-sogering. I can't get the hang o' those new-fangled
Yankee notions," he continued, referring to the parlour stove,
named after the great philosopher whose name it bore.

A large semicircle of seats was drawn up around the hearth. The
squire took down from the mantel his long-stemmed "churchwarden"
pipe.

"I learned to smoke in Old Virginny," he said apologetically. "Had
the real virgin leaf. It had often to be both meat and drink when
I was campaigning there. I wish I could quit it; but, young man,"
addressing himself to Neville, "I'd advise you never to learn.
It's bad enough for an old sojer like me; but a smoking preacher I
don't admire."

Zenas, crouched by the chimney-jamb, roasting chestnuts and
"popping" corn; Sandy, with the characteristic thrift of his
countrymen, set about repairing a broken whip-stock and fitting it
with a new lash; Tom Loker idly whittled a stick, and Miss
Katharine drew up her low rocking-chair beside her father, and
proceeded to nimbly knit a stout-ribbed stocking, intended for his
comfort--for girls in those days knew how to knit, ay, and card
the wool and spin the yarn too.

"Now, Tom, tell us all about Hull's surrender," said Zenas, to
whom the stirring story was already an oft-told tale.

"Wall, after I seed you, three months agone," said Tom, nodding to
Neville, and taking a fresh stick to whittle, "we trudged on all
that day and the next to Long P'int, an' a mighty long p'int it
wuz to reach, too. Never wuz so tired in my life. Follering the
plough all day wuz nothing to it. But when we got to the P'int, we
found the Gineral there. An' he made us a rousin' speech that put
new life into every man of us, an' we felt that we could foller
him anywheres. As ther wuz no roads to speak of, and the Gineral
had considerable stores, he seized all the boats he could find."

"Requiseetioned, they ca' it," interjected Sandy.

"Wall, it's purty much the same, I reckon," continued Tom, "an' a
queer lot o' boats they wuz--fishin' boats, Durham boats, scows
[Footnote: In the absence of roads, boats were much used for
carrying corn and flour to and from the mills, and for the
conveyance of farm produce.]--a'most anythin' that 'ud float.
Ther' wuz three hundred of us at the start, an' we picked up more
on the way. Wall, we sailed an' paddled a matter o' two hundred
miles to Fort Malden, an' awful cramped it wuz, crouchin' all day
in them scows; an' every night we camped on shore, but sometimes
the bank wuz so steep an' the waves so high we had to sail on for
miles to find a creek we could run into, an' once we rowed all
night. As we weathered P'int Pelee, the surf nearly swamped us."

"What a gran' feed we got frae thae gallant Colonel Talbot!"
interjected Sandy McKay. "D'ye mind his bit log bothie perched
like a craw's nest atop o' yon cliff. The 'Castle o' Malahide,' he
ca'd it, no less. How he speered gin there were ony men frae
Malahide in the auld kintry wi' us! An' a prood man he was o' his
ancestry sax hunnerd years lang syne. Methinks he's the gran'est
o' the name himsel'--the laird o' a score o' toonships a' settled
by himsel'. Better yon than like the gran' Duke o' Sutherland
drivin' thae puir bodies frae hoose an' hame. Lang suld Canada
mind the gran' Colonel Talbot [Footnote: Posterity has not been
ungrateful to the gallant colonel. In the towns of St. Thomas and
Talbotville, his name is commemorated, and it is fondly cherished
in the grateful traditions of many an early settler's family. He
died at London, at the age of eighty, in 1853.] But was na it fey
that him as might hae the pick an' choice o' thae braw dames o'
Ireland suld live his lane, wi' out a woman's han' to cook his
kail or recht up his den, as he ca'd it."

"I've been at his castle," said Neville, "and very comfortable it
is: He lives like a feudal lord,--allots land, dispenses justice,
marries the settlers, reads prayers on Sunday, and rules the
settlement like a forest patriarch." "Tell about Tecumseh," said
Zenas, in whose eyes that distinguished chief divided the honours
with General Brock.

"Wall," continued Loker, "at Malden there wuz a grand pow-wow, an'
the Indians wore their war-paint and their medals, and Tecumseh
made a great harangue. He was glad, he said, their great father
across the sea had woke up from his long sleep an' sent his
warriors to help his red children, who would shed the last drop of
their blood in fighting against the 'Merican long knives." "And
they'll do it, too," chimed in Zenas, in unconscious prophecy of
the near approaching death of that brave chief and many of his
warriors.

"An' Tecumseh," continued the narrator, "drawed a map of Detroit
an' the 'Merican fort on a piece o' birch bark, as clever, I
heered the Gineral say, as an officer of engineers."

"But was na yon a gran' speech thae General made us when we were
tauld tae attack thae fort?" exclaimed Sandy with martial
enthusiasm. "Mon, it made me mind o' Wallace an' his 'Scots wham
Bruce hae aften led.' I could ha' followed him 'gainst ony odds,
though odds eneuch there were--near twa tae ane, an' thae big guns
an' thae fort tae their back."

"Wasn't I glad to see the white flag come from the fort as we
formed column for assault, instead o' the flash o' the big guns,
showin' their black muzzles there," Loker ingenuously confessed.
"I'm no coward, but it makes a feller feel skeery to see those
ugly-lookin' war dogs splttin' fire at him."

"Hae na I tell't ye," said Sandy, somewhat sardonically, "gin
ye're born tae be hangit, the bullet's no made that'll kill ye."

"Ye're as like to be hanged yerself," said Tom, somewhat
resentfully, giving the proverb a rather literal interpretation.

"Tush, mon, nae offence, its ony an auld Scotch saw, that. But an
angry mon was yon tall Captain Scott [Footnote: Afterwards Major-
General Scott, Commander-in-Chief of the United States army. The
prisoners were sent to Montreal and Quebec. Hull was subsequently
court-marshalled for cowardice and condemned to death, but he was
reprieved on account of Revolutionary service.] at thae surrender.
How he stamped an' raved an' broke his sword."

"I am sure the Gineral was very kind to them. On our march home,
the prisoners shared and fared as well as we did."

"I heard," said Neville, "that Hull was afraid the Indians would
massacre the women and children who had taken refuge in the fort."

"No fear of that," said Loker. "Tecumseh told the Gineral they had
sworn off liquor during the war. It's the fire-water that makes
the Indian a madman, an' the white man, too."

"Well, thank God," said Neville, "it is a great and bloodless
victory. I hope it will bring a speedy peace."

"I am afraid not," said the squire, arousing from his doze in the
"ingle nook." "We had a seven years' struggle of it in the old
war, and I fear that there will have to be some blood-letting
before these bad humours are cufed. But we'll hope for the best.
Come, Katharine, bring us a flagon of your sweet cider."

The sturdy brown flagon was brought, and the gleaming pewter mugs
were filled--it was long before the days of Temperance Societies--
even the preacher thinking it no harm to take his mug of the
sweet, amber-coloured draught.

Neville read from the great family Bible that night the majestic
forty-sixth psalm, so grandly paraphrased in Luther's hymn,

  "Ein' feste Burg ist unser Gott;"

the favourite battle-hymn, chanting which the Protestant armies
marched to victory on many a hard-fought field--the hymn sung by
the host of Gustavus Adolphus on the eve of the fatal fight of
Lutzen.

As he read the closing verses of the psalm the young preacher's
voice assumed the triumphant tone of assured faith in the glorious
prophecy:

"He maketh wars to cease unto the ends of the earth; He breaketh
the bow and cutteth the spear in sunder; He burneth the chariot in
the fire.

"Be still, and know that I am God: I will be exalted among the
heathen, I will be exalted in the earth.

"The Lord of Hosts is with us, the God of Jacob is our refuge."

"Amen!" unconsciously but fervently responded the soft low voice
of Katherine Drayton to this prophecy of millennial peace, and
this solemn avowal of present confidence in the Most High.

Alas! before to-morrow's sun should set, her woman's heart should
bleed at the desolations of war brought home to her very
hearthstone.




CHAPTER III.

QUEENSTON HEIGHTS.


About seven miles from the mouth of the Niagara River, a bold
escarpment of rock, an old lake margin, runs across the country
from east to west, at a height of about three hundred feet above
the level of Lake Ontario. Through this the river, in the course
of ages, has worn a deep and gloomy gorge. At the foot of the
cliff and on its lower slopes, nestled on the western side the
hamlet of Queenston and on the eastern the American village of
Lewiston. On the Canadian side, where the ascent of the hill was
more abrupt, it was overcome by a road that by a series of sharp
zigzags gained the tableland at the top. Halfway up the height was
a battery mounting an 18-pound gun, and manned by twelve men, and
on the bank of the river, some distance below the village, was
another mounting a 24-pound carronade. On either side of the rocky
pass from which the river flows, the spiry spruces and cedars with
twisted roots grapple with the rocks and cling to the steep
slopes.

The river emerges from the narrow gorge, a dark and tortured
stream. For seven miles since its plunge over the great cataract,
it has been convulsed by raging rapids and rugged rocks and by a
seething whirlpool. As it here glides out into a wider channel, it
bears the evidences of its tumultuous course in the resistless
sweep of its waters and the dangerous eddies and "boilers" by
which its dark surface is disturbed. At this point is a favourite
fishing-ground. The schools of herring attempting to ascend the
river are here unable to overcome the swiftness of the current and
are caught in large quantities by the rude seines and nets of the
neighbouring fishermen, a waggon-load sometimes being caught in a
few hours. Notwithstanding the invasion of Canada by Hull and the
capture of Detroit by Brock, a sort of armed truce was observed
along the Niagara frontier; and Brock had orders from Sir George
Provost, Commander-in-Chief and Governor-General, to stand
strictly on the defensive. As the schools of fish at this season
of the year were running finely, the fishermen of the villages on
each side of the river were eagerly engaged in securing their
finny harvest, on which much of their winter food supply depended.
As this was a mutual necessity, each party, by a tacit consent,
was allowed to ply this peaceful avocation, for the most part,
undisturbed by hostile demonstrations of the other.

For the defence of the whole frontier of thirty-four miles from
Fort Erie to Fort George, Brock had only some fifteen hundred men,
of whom at least one-half were militiamen and Indians. On the
American side of the river, a force of over six thousand regulars
and militia were assembled for the invasion of Canada. These were
distributed along the river from Fort Niagara to Buffalo. Brock
was compelled, therefore, still further to weaken his already
scanty force by being on the alert at all points, as he knew not
at which one the attack would be made. Consequently there were
only some three hundred men, mostly militia, quartered at
Queenston at the time of which we write. They were billeted at the
inn and houses of the village and in the neighbouring farmhouses
and barns.

The morning of the thirteenth of October, a day ever memorable in
the annals of Canada, broke cold and stormy. Low hung clouds
mantled the sky and made the late dawn later still, and cast still
darker shadows on the sombre clumps of spruce and pines that
clothed the sides of the gorge, and on the sullen water that
flowed between. A couple of fishermen of the neighbourhood who
were serving in the militia had been permitted by the officer in
command to attend to their seines, with the injunction to keep a
sharp look-out at the same time, and to be ready at an instant's
summons to join the ranks. As the schools of herring were in full
run, they had remained all night in the little bothie or hut, made
of spruce boughs, down at the water-side, that they might at the
earliest dawn draw their seine and set it again unmolested by the
stray shots from the opposite side, which, notwithstanding the
truce, had of late occasionally been fired. At the same season of
the year, the same operation can still be witnessed at the same
place--the narrow ledge beneath the cliff, along the river-bank,
especially near the abutment of the broken Suspension Bridge.

The elder of the two men was a sturdy Welshman--Jonas Evans by
name--a Methodist of the Lady Huntingdon connexion. The other, Jim
Larkins, was Canadian born, the son of a neighbouring farmer.
About four o'clock in the morning they emerged from their spruce
booth and began hauling with their rude windlass upon the seine,
heavily laden with fish.

"Hark!" exclaimed Jonas to his companion, "what noise is that? I
thought I heard the splash of oars."

"It is only the wash of the waves upon the shore or the sough of
the wind among the pines. You're likely to hear nothing else this
time o' day, or o' night rather."

"There it is again," said the old man, peering into the darkness,
"And I'm sure I heard the sound o' voices on the river. See
there!" he exclaimed as a long dark object was descried amid the
gloom. "There is a boat, and there behind it is another; and I
doubt not there are still others behind. Run, Jim, call out the
guard. The Lord hath placed us here to confound the devices of the
enemy."

Snatching from the booth his trusty Brown Bess musket, without
waiting to challenge, for he well knew that this was the vanguard
of the threatened invasion, he fired at the boat, more for the
purpose of giving the alarm than in the expectation of inflicting
any damage on the moving object in the uncertain light.

The sound of the musket shot echoed and re-echoed between the
rocky cliffs, and repeated in loud reverberations its thrilling
sound of warning.

"Curse him! we are discovered," exclaimed the steersman of the
foremost boat, with a brutal oath. "Spring to your oars, lads! We
must gain a footing before the guard turns out or it's all up with
us. Pull for your lives!"

No longer rowing cautiously with muffled oars, but with loud
shouts and fairly churning the surface of the water into foam,
they made the boat--a large flat-bottomed barge--bound through the
waves. Another and another emerged rapidly from the darkness, and
their prows successively grated upon the shingle as they were
forced upon the beach. The invading troops leaped lightly out with
a clash of arms, and at the quick, sharp word of command, formed
upon the beach.

Meanwhile, on the cliff above, the sharp challenge and reply of
the guard, the shrill _reveille_ of the bugle, and the quick
throbbing of the drums calling to arms is heard. The men turn out
with alacrity, and are soon seen, in the grey dawn, running from
their several billets to headquarters, buckling their belts and
adjusting their accoutrements as they run. Soon is heard the
measured tramp of armed men forming in companies to attack the
enemy. Sixty men of the 49th Grenadiers, under the command of
Captain Dennis, and Captain Halt's company of militia advance with
a light 3-pounder gun against the first division of the enemy,
under Colonel Van Renssclaer, who has formed his men on the beach
and is waiting the arrival of the next boats. These are seen
rapidly approaching, but to get them safely across the river is a
work of great difficulty and danger. The current is swift, and the
swirling eddies are strong and constantly changing their position.
On leaving the American shore, they were obliged to pull up stream
as far as possible. But when caught by the resistless sweep of the
current, they were borne rapidly down, their track being an acute
diagonal across the stream. To reach the only available landing-
place, they must again row up stream in the slack water on the
Canadian side, their whole course being thus like the outline of
the letter 'N'. [Footnote: The present writer has a vivid
remembrance of a night-passage of the river under circumstances of
some peril. It was in a small flat-bottomed scow. Shortly after
leaving the American shore, a tremendous storm of thunder,
lightning, rain, and hail burst over the river. The waves, crested
with snowy foam which gleamed ghastly in the dim light of our
lantern, threatened to engulf our frail bark. The boatman strained
every nerve and muscle, but was borne a mile down the river before
he made the land. That distance he had to retrace along the
rugged, boulder-strewn, and log-encumbered shore. We reached the
landing in a still more demoralized condition than the American
invaders, but met a warmly hospitable, not hostile, reception.]

Of the thirteen boats that left the American shore, three were
driven back by the British fire--the little three-pounder and the
two batteries doing good service as their hissing shots fell in
disagreeably close proximity to the boats, sometimes splashing
them with spray, and once ricocheting right over one of them.

The first detachment of invaders were driven with some loss behind
a steep bank close to the water's edge, but they were soon
reinforced by fresh arrivals, and, being now in overwhelming
strength, steadily fought their way up the bank.

Meanwhile, where was Brock? Such, we venture to think, was the
most eager thought of every mind on either side. He was speeding
as fast as his good steed could carry him to his glorious fate.
The previous night, at head-quarters at Fort George, he had called
his staff together and, in anticipation of the invasion, had given
to each officer his instructions. In the morning, agreeably to his
custom, he rose before day. While dressing, the sound of the
distant cannonade caught his attentive ear. He speedily roused his
aides-de-camp, Major Glegg and Colonel Macdonel, and called for
his favourite horse, Alfred, the gift of his friend, Sir James
Craig. His first impression was that the distant firing was but a
feint to draw the garrison from Fort George. The real point of
attack he anticipated would be Niagara, and he suspected an
American force to be concealed in boats around the point on which
Fort Niagara stood, ready to cross over as soon as the coast was
clear. He determined, therefore, to ascertain personally the
nature of the attack before withdrawing the garrison.

With his two aides, he galloped eagerly to the scene of the
action. As he approached Queenston Heights, the whole slope of the
hill was swept by a heavy artillery and musketry fire from the
American shore. Nevertheless, with his aides, he rode at full
speed up to the 18-pounder battery, midway to the summit.
Dismounting, he surveyed the disposition of the opposed forces and
personally directed the fire of the gun. At this moment firing was
heard on the crest of the hill commanding the battery. A
detachment of American troops under Captain (afterwards General)
Wool had climbed like catamounts the steep cliff by an unguarded
fisherman's path. Sir Isaac Brock and his aides had not even time
to remount, but were compelled to retire with the twelve gunners
who manned the battery. This was promptly occupied by the
Americans, who raised the stars and stripes. Brock, having first
despatched a messenger to order up reinforcements from Fort George
and to command the bombardment of Fort Niagara, [Footnote: This
was done with such vigour that its fire was silenced and its
garrison compelled for the time to abandon it.] determined to
recapture the battery. Placing himself at the head of a company of
the Forty-ninth he charged up the hill under a heavy fire. The
enemy gave way, and Brock, by the tones of his voice and the
reckless exposure of his person, inspirited the pursuit of his
followers. His tall figure--he was six feet two inches in height,
--his conspicuous valour, and his general's epaulettes and cockade
attracted the fire of the American sharpshooters, and he fell,
pierced through the breast by a mortal bullet. As he fell upon his
face, a devoted follower rushed to his assistance. "Don't mind
me," he said. "Push on the York volunteers," and with his ebbing
life sending a love-message to his sister in the far-off Isle of
Guernsey, the brave soul passed away.




CHAPTER IV.

THE WAGES OF WAR.


At The Holms, as may well be supposed, the rude alarum of war, at
the very door, as it were, threw the quiet household into unwonted
excitement. The early cannonade brought every member of the family
with eager questioning into the great kitchen.

"It has come," said the squire, "the day I have long looked for.
We muse meet it like brave men."

"God defend the right," added Neville, with solemn emotion.

"And forgive and pity our misguided enemies," said Katharine, the
tears standing in her eyes.

"And send them back quicker than they came," exclaimed Zenas, with
some more hard words of boyish petulance.

"We must help to send them, eh, Sandy?" said Tom Loker.

"Ay, please God," devoutly answered Mr. McKay. "I doubt na He will
break them in pieces like a potter's vessel--a vessel fitted for
destruction."

After a hurried breakfast the two men hastened to join their
militia company, Mary having first filled their haversacks with a
liberal supply of bread and cheese, ham sandwich, and, at Sandy's
special request, a quantity of oaten bannocks.

"They're aye gude to fecht or march on," he said, "an' we're like
eneuch to hae baith to thole or ere we win hame again."

The apparition of Sir Isaac Brock and his aides galloping past the
house in the early dawn, and an hour later of the breathless
messenger returning to hurry up re-enforcements, and of the troops
from Fort George marching by to the inspiring strains of "The
British Grenadiers," had been witnessed by Zenas, and had excited
his highest enthusiasm. "Now, father," he said, "the time has come
for me to do my part for my country."

"You shall, my son," said the squire tenderly. "Even as David went
to his brethren in the camp, shall you bear succour to the brave
fellows who are fighting our battles. Some of them may sorely want
help before the day is over."

"And I," said Neville, "will go with him. I hope I may be of some
use, too."

"That you may," answered the squire. "I only fear there may be but
too much need for your services."

With busy hands the old soldier and his son loaded the waggon with
such articles as his military experience had taught him would be
most needed by men exposed to all the deadly vicissitudes of war.
Katharine prepared a great boilerful of tea--"The best thing in
the world," said the squire, "for fighting men." All the bread in
the house, a huge round of cold beef and half a dozen smoked hams,
a large cheese, several jars of milk, and the last churning of
great yellow rolls of butter were gladly given to the patriotic
service. With his own hands the squire put up a generous parcel of
his best Virginia leaf tobacco. "I know well," he said, "how it
soothes the pain of wounds and numbs the pangs of hunger." More
thoughtful provision still, Kate, with a sigh, brought out the
stout roll of lint bandage which, at her father's suggestion, she
had prepared for the unknown contingencies of the border war.

"O this is dreadful, father," she said. "It seems almost like
making a shroud before the man who is to wear it is dead."

"It may save some poor fellow's life, my dear," he answered, "and
one must always prepare for the worst, war is such an uncertain
game. Indeed, wounds and death are almost the only things certain
about it."

"Keep in the rear of the troops, my son, and take your orders from
Major Sheaffe or of the army surgeon. I told them both what we
were sending, as they passed. Keep out of gunshot and avoid
capture: the time may come only too soon when you'll share the
battle's brunt yourself."

"I wish it were to-day, father. I'd give almost anything to be
with Brock and his brave fellows."

"So would I, my son; but I must be the home-guard. It would never
do to leave Kate and the maids unprotected, with an invasion so
near. And no work can be more important than may be before you
both before you return."

The brave boy drove off to the scene of action, the distant rattle
of musketry, and at short intervals the loud roar of the cannon,
making his heart throb with martial enthusiasm. The young preacher
communed with his own heart on the unnatural conflict between his
own kinsmen after the flesh and the compatriots of his spiritual
adoption--and was still. The brave old veteran, shouldering the
musket that had done good service at Brandywine and Germantown,
patrolled the river road bounding the farm.

As they approached the village of Queenston, Neville and Zenas
found that a temporary lull in hostilities had taken place. The
Americans had possession of the heights, and were strongly re-
enforced from the Lewiston side of the river.

The redcoats from Fort George--about four hundred men of the 41st
regiment, together with a part of the 49th, which had already been
in action--were about to march by a by-road apparently away from
the scene of action.

"Hello!" said Zenas to young Ensign Norton, of the 41st regiment,
who was a frequent visitor at his father's house. "I don't
understand this. You are not running away from these fellows are
you? Why don't you drive the Yankees from that battery?"

"We intend to, young Hotspur, but it would be madness to charge up
that hill in face of those guns. We are to take them in flank, I
suppose, and drive them over the cliff."

"Where's Brock?" asked the boy, jealous of the fame of his hero,
which he seemed to think compromised by this prudent counsel.

"Have not you heard," said Norton, with something between a sigh
and a sob? "He'll never lead us again. He lies in yonder house,"
pointing to a long, low, poor-looking dwelling-house on the left
side of the road.

"What! dead? killed--so soon?" cried the boy, turning white, and
then flushing red, and unconsciously clenching his fists as he
spoke.

"Yes, Mister," said a war-bronzed soldier standing by, who looked
doubly grim from the blood trickling down his powder-blackened
cheek from a scalp wound received during the morning skirmish. "I
stood anear him when he fell, an' God knows I'd rather the bullet
had struck me; my fighting days will soon be over, anyhow. But
we'll avenge his death afore the day is done. They call us the
green tigers, them fellers do, an' there's not a man of us won't
fight like a tiger robbed of her whelps, for not a man of us
wouldn't 'a' died for the General."

"To the right, wheel, forward march!" came the order from the
Colonel, and the "green tigers" filed on with the grim resolve to
conquer or to die.

The militia, clad chiefly in homespun frieze, with flint-lock
muskets and stout cartridge boxes at their belts, were drawn up at
the roadside, and were being supplied with ammunition, previous to
following the regulars.

A number of Indians, whose chief dress was a breach clout and
deerskin leggings, formidable in their war-paint and war plumes,
with scalping-knives and tomahawks, were only partially held in
hand by Chief Brant, conspicuous by his height, his wampum fillet
and eagle plumes, and his King George's medal on his breast.

"Drive on to the village," said Major-General Sheaffe, who was now
chief in command, to Zenas as he passed. "You will find plenty to
do there."

At the house where Brock's body lay, a single sentry stood at
guard, his features settled in a fixed and stony stare, as though
by a resolute effort controlling his emotions. Beyond the village
a strong guard was drawn up, and two field pieces, with their
gunners, occupied the road.

Soldiers were passing in and out of a large barn which stood near
the roadside. They came in groups of two each from the trampled
hill slope, bearing on stretchers their ghastly burden of bleeding
and wounded men. Although coming within musket-range of the
American force, no molestation was offered. Their work of humanity
was felt to be too sacred for even red-handed War to disturb.
Indeed, both American and British wounded were cared for with
generous impartiality.

Zenas and Neville, assisted by an officer's orderly, conveyed
their hospital stores into the barn. On bundles of unthreshed
wheat, or on trusses of hay, were a number of writhing, groaning,
bleeding forms, a few hours since in the vigour of manhood's
strength, now maimed, some of them for life, some of them marked
for death, and one ghastly form already cold and rigid, covered by
a blood-stained sheet At one side they beheld an army surgeon with
his sleeves rolled up, but, notwithstanding this precaution,
smeared with blood, kneeling over a poor fellow who lay upon a
truss of hay, and probing his shoulder to trace and, if possible,
extract a bullet that had deeply penetrated.

"Why, Jim Larkins, is that you?" exclaimed Zenas, recognizing an
old neighbour and recent schoolfellow.

"Yes, Zenas, all that's left of me. I won't fight no more for one
while, I guess," he answered, as he moaned with agony as the
doctor probed the wound.

"Give him a drink," said the doctor, and Zenas, as tenderly as a
girl, supported his head and held to his parched lips a mug of
cold and refreshing tea.

"Blessings on the kind heart that sent that," said the wounded
man.

"It was Kate," said Zenas.

"I knowed it must be," murmured Jim, who was one of her rustic
admirers. "Tell her," he continued, in the natural egotism of
suffering, "she never did a better deed. Heaven reward her for
it."

Zenas thought of the benediction pronounced on the cup of cold
water given for the Master, and rejoiced in the privilege of
ministering to these wounded and, it might be, dying men.

"You'll have to lose your arm, my good fellow," said the doctor,
kindly, but in a business-like way, "the bone is badly shattered."
"I was afear'd o' that ever since I got hit. I was just a-takin'
aim when I missed my fire,--I didn't know why, didn't feel
nuthin', but I couldn't hold the gun. Old Jonas Evans, the Methody
local preacher, was aside me, a-prayin' like a saint and a-
fightin' like a lion. 'The Lord ha' mercy on his soul,' I heared
him say as he knocked a feller over. Well, he helped me out o' the
fight as tender as a woman, and then went at it again as fierce as
ever."

"Don't talk so much, my good follow," said the doctor, who had
been preparing ligatures to tie the arteries and arranging his
saw, knife, and tourniquet within reach. The operation was soon
over, Jim never flinching a bit. Indeed, during action, and for
some time after, the sensibilities seem, by the concurrent
excitement, mercifully deadened to pain.

"I'd have spared t'other one too, an' right willin'," said the
faithful fellow, "if it would have saved Brock."

Zenas, at the doctor's direction, held the poor fellow's shattered
arm till the amputation was complete. As the dissevered limb grew
cold in his hands, he seemed more distressed than its late owner.
Instead of laying it with some others near the surgeon's table, he
wrapped it tenderly, as though it still could feel, in a cloth,
and going out where a fatigue party were burying on the field of
battle--clad in their military dress, in waiting for the last
trump and the final parade at the great review--the victims of the
fight, he laid the dead arm reverently in the ground, and covered
it with its kindred clay. He thought of his sister's remark, about
preparing the shroud before death, but here was he burying part of
the body of a man who was yet alive.

Neville, meanwhile, had been speaking words of spiritual comfort
and counsel to the wounded and the dying, and receiving their last
faint-whispered messages to loved ones far away. He also read,
over the ghastly trench in which the dead were being buried--one
wide, long, common grave, in which lay side by side friend and
foe, those recently arrayed in battle with each other, slain by
mutual wounds, and now at rest and for ever--the solemn funeral
service. As he pronounced the words, "Dust to dust, ashes to
ashes," the earth was thrown on the uncoffined dead, and then over
the soldiers' grave their comrades fired their farewell volley and
again mounted guard against the foe.

Zenas received a lesson in surgery that day of which he found the
benefit more than once before the war was over. He was soon able
to apply one of Katharine's lint bandages or dress a wound with a
deftness that elicited the commendation not only of the subject of
his ministration, but even of the knight of the scalpel himself.
Neville, too, evinced no little skill in the surgeon's beneficent
art.

"Young Drayton," said the surgeon, "I think we shall have to
trespass on the hospitality of your house on behalf of Captain
Villiers, here. He has received a severe gunshot wound, from which
he will be some time in convalescing. I know no place where he
will be so comfortable, and I know the squire will make him
welcome."

"Of course he will," said Zenas, with alacrity. "He would make
even those wounded Yanks welcome, much more an officer of the
King."

While Neville remained to minister to the dying, Zenas made a
comfortable bed of hay in his now empty waggon, on which the
wounded captain was placed, with a wheat sheaf for a pillow, and
drove carefully to The Holms. He was preceded by a waggon
conveying a number of wounded soldiers to the military hospital at
Niagara. As this load of injured and anguished humanity was driven
down and up the steep sides of the ravine which crosses the road
to the north of the village, at every jolt over the rough stones a
groan of agony was wrung from the poor fellows, that made the
heart of Zenas ache with sympathy and when the team stopped at the
top of the hill, the blood ran from the waggon and stained the
ground. War did not seem to the boy such a glorious thing as when
he saw the gallant redcoats in the morning marching to the
stirring strains of the "British Grenadiers." The boy seemed to
have become a man in a few hours. Not less full of enthusiasm and
high courage, but more serious and grave, and never again was he
heard vapouring about the "pomp and circumstance of glorious war."
[Footnote: Accounts of several of the above-mentioned incidents
were gleaned from the conversation of an intelligent lady,
recently deceased, who, as a young girl, was an eye-witness of the
leading events of the war.]




CHAPTER V.

A VICTORY AND ITS COST.


While the events just described had been taking place, an
important movement was made for the recovery of Queenston Heights.
Major-General Sheaffe, with a force of about nine hundred redcoats
and militia, made a circuitous march through the village of St.
David's, and thus gained the crest of the heights on which the
enemy were posted. Here he was re-enforced by the arrival of a
company of the 41st grenadiers and a body of militiamen from
Chippewa.

With a volley and a gallant British cheer, they attacked, about
two o'clock in the afternoon, the American force, which had also
been re-enforced to about the same number as the British. Courage
the enemy had, but they lacked the confidence and steadiness
imparted by the presence of the veteran British troops.
Nevertheless, for a time they stoutly stood their ground; but,
soon perceiving the hopelessness of resistance, they everywhere
gave way, and retreated precipitately down the hill to their place
of landing. The Indians, like sleuth hounds that had broken leash,
unhappily could not be restrained, and, shrieking their blood-
curdling war-whoops, pursued with tomahawk and reeking blade the
demoralized fugitives. Many stragglers were cut off from the main
body and attempted to escape through the woods. These were
intercepted and driven back by the exasperated Indians, burning to
avenge the death of Brock, for whom they felt an affection and
veneration for which the savage breast would scarce have been
deemed capable.

Terrified at the appearance of the enraged warriors, many of the
Americans flung themselves wildly over the cliff and endeavoured
to scramble down its rugged and precipitous slope. Some were
impaled upon the jagged pines, others reached the bottom bruised
and bleeding, and others, attempting to swim the rapid stream,
were drowned in its whirling eddies. One who reached the opposite
shore in a boat made a gesture of defiance and contempt toward his
foes across the river, when he fell, transpierced with the bullet
of an Indian sharpshooter.

Two brothers of the Canadian militia fought side by side, when, in
the moment of victory, a shot pierced the lungs of the younger, a
boy of seventeen, with a fair, innocent face. His brother bore him
from the field in his arms, and, while the life-tide ebbed from
his wound, the dying boy faltered--

"Kiss me, Jim. Tell mother--I was not--afraid to die," and as the
blood gushed from his mouth, the brave young spirit departed.

All that day, and on many a foughten field thereafter, the living
brother heard those dying words, and in his ear there rang a wild
refrain, which nerved his arm and steeled his heart to fight for
the country hallowed by his brother's blood.

  "O, how the drum beats so loud!
  'Close beside me in the fight,
  My dying brother says, 'Good night!'
  And the cannon's awful breath
  Screams the loud halloo of Death!
    And the drum,
    And the drum
    Beats so loud!"

Such were some of the dreadful horrors with which a warfare
between two kindred peoples was waged; and such were some of the
costly sacrifices with which the liberties of Canada were won. As
from the vantage ground of these happier times we look back upon
the stern experiences of those iron days, they inspire a blended
feeling of pity and regret, not unmingled with a vague remorse,
shot through and through our patriotic pride and exultation, like
dark threads in a bright woof. Through the long centuries of
carnage and strife through which the race has struggled up to
freedom, how faint has seemed the echo of the angel's song, "Peace
on earth, good will to men."

 "I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus,
    The cries of agony, the endless groan.
  Which, through the ages that have gone before us,
    In long reverberations reach our own.

 "Is it, O man with such discordant noises,
    With such accursed instruments as these,
  Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly voices,
    And jarrest the celestial harmonies.

       *       *       *       *       *

  "Down the dark future, through long generations,
    The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease;
   And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations
    I hear once more the voice of Christ say, 'Peace!'

  "Peace! and no longer from its brazen portals
     The blast of War's great organ shakes the skies!
   But beautiful as songs of the immortals,
     The holy melodies of love arise."

The result of the battle of Queenston Heights was the
unconditional surrender of Brigadier Wadsworth and nine hundred
and fifty officers and privates as prisoners of war. But this
victory, brilliant as it was, was dearly bought with the death of
the loved and honored Brock, the brave young Macdonnell, and those
of humbler rank, whose fall brought sorrow to many a Canadian
home.

 "Joy's bursting shout in whelming grief was drowned,
    And victory's self unwilling audience found;
  On every brow the cloud of sadness hung,--
    "The sounds of triumph died on every tongue."

Three days later all that was mortal of General Brock and his
gallant aide-de-camp was committed to the earth with mournful
pageantry. With arms reversed and muffled drums and the wailing
strains of the "Dead March," the sad procession passed, while the
half-mast flags and minute guns of both the British and American
forts attested the honour and esteem in which the dead soldiers
were held by friends and foes alike. Amid the tears of war-bronzed
soldiers and even of stoical Indians they were laid in one common
grave in a bastion of Fort George. A grateful country has since
erected on the scene of the victory--one of the grandest sites on
earth--a noble monument to the memory of Brock, and beneath it,
side by side, sleeps the dust of the heroic chief and his faithful
aide-de-camp--united in their death and not severed in their
burial.

As Neville and the squire and Zenas turned away from the solemn
pageant of which they had been silent spectators, the latter
remarked,

"Captain Villiers said he'd almost give his other arm to be able
to be present to-day and lay a wreath on the coffin of his gallant
chief. As he couldn't come, he wrote these verses, which he wished
me to post to the York _Gazette_. He said I might read them
to you, Mr. Trueman, before I sent them." And the boy, not very
fluently, but with a good deal of feeling, read the following
lines:--

 "Low bending o'er the ragged bier,
  The soldier drops the mournful tear,
  For life departed, valour driven,
  Fresh from the field of death, to Heaven.

 "But Time shall fondly trace the name
  Of BROCK upon the scrolls of Fame,
  And those bright laurels, which should wave
  Upon the brow of one so brave,
  Shall flourish vernal o'er his grave."

Neville commended the graceful tribute with generous warmth, when
Zenas remarked,

"The Captain will be glad to hear you like them. Leastways, I
suppose so. He read them himself to Kate this morning, and seemed
pleased because they made her cry."

"He is a brave gentleman," says the squire. "I fear it will be
long before he mounts his horse, again."

"O he'll soon be round again," chimed in Zenas. "He said Kate
would be his Elaine, to nurse the wounded Lancelot back to life.
Who was Lancelot?"

"Some of those moon-struck poetry fellows, I'll be bound," said
the squire contemptuously.

"Nay, a very gallant knight," said Neville, who had when a boy,
read with delight Sir Thomas Mallory's book of King Arthur; but he
did not seem to relish the comparison and led the conversation
into a serious vein, as befitting the solemn occasion.




CHAPTER VI.

THE CAPTURE OF YORK.


After the battle of Queenston Heights an armistice of a month
followed, during which each party was gathering up its strength
for the renewal of the unnatural conflict. General Smyth, who had
succeeded Van Rensselaer, assembled a force five thousand strong,
for the conquest of Canada. At the expiration of the armistice, he
issued a Napoleonic proclamation to his "companions in arms."
"Come on, my heroes" it concludes; "when you attack the enemy's
batteries let your rallying word be: 'The cannon lost at Detroit,
or death.'"

At length, before day-break on the morning of November 28th--a
cold, bleak day--a force of some five hundred men, in eighteen
scows, attempted the capture of Grand Island, in the Niagara
River. A considerable British force had rallied from Fort Erie and
Chippewa. In silence they awaited the approach of the American
flotilla. As it came within range, a ringing cheer burst forth,
and a deadly volley of musketry was poured into the advancing
boats. A six-pounder, well served by Captain Kerby, shattered two
of the boats; and the Americans, thrown into confusion, sought the
shelter of their own shore.

General Smyth now sent a summons for the surrender of Fort Erie.
Colonel Bishopp, its commandant, sarcastically invited him to
"come and take it." After several feints the attempt was
abandoned, and the army went into winter quarters. Smyth, an empty
gasconader, was regarded, even by his own troops, with contempt,
and had to fly from the camp to escape their indignation. He was
even hooted and fired at in the streets of Buffalo, and was,
without trial, dismissed from the army,--a sad collapse of his
vaunting ambition.

In the meanwhile, General Dearborn, with an army of ten thousand
men, advanced by way of Lake Champlain to the frontier of Lower
Canada. The Canadians rallied _en masse_ to repel the
invasion, barricaded the roads with felled trees, and guarded
every pass. On the 20th of November, before day, an attack was
made by fourteen hundred of the enemy on the British out-post at
Lacolle, near Rouse's Point; but the guard, keeping up a sharp
fire, withdrew, and the Americans, in the darkness and confusion,
fired into each other's ranks, and fell back in disastrous and
headlong retreat. The discomfited general, despairing of a
successful attack on Montreal, so great was the vigilance and
valour of the Canadians, retired with his "Grand Army of the
North" into safe winter quarters, behind the entrenchments of
Plattsburg. A few ineffectual border raids and skirmishes, at
different points of the extended frontier, were characteristic
episodes of the war during the winter, and, indeed, throughout the
entire duration of hostilities.

In their naval engagements the Americans were more successful. On
Lake Ontario, Commodore Chauncey equipped a strong fleet, which
drove the Canadian shipping for protection under the guns of
Niagara, York, and Kingston. He generously restored the private
plate of Sir Isaac Brock, captured in one of his prizes.

In these naval conflicts the greatest gallantry was exhibited in
the dreadful work of mutual slaughter. The vessels reeked with
blood like a shambles, and, if not blown up or sunk, became
floating hospitals of deadly wounds and agonizing pain.

In the United States Congress this unnatural strife of kindred
races was vigorously denounced by some of the truest American
patriots. Mr. Quincy, of Massachusetts, characterized it as the
"most disgraceful in history since the invasion of the
buccaneers." But the Democratic majority persisted in their stern
policy of implacable war.

The patriotism and valour of the Canadians were, however, fully
demonstrated. With the aid of a few regulars, the loyal militia
had repulsed large armies of invaders, and not only maintained the
inviolable integrity of their soil, but had also conquered a
considerable portion of the enemy's territory. [Footnote:
Condensed from Withrow's History of Canada, 8vo. edition, chap.
xxii.]

The winter dragged its weary length along. Its icy hand was laid
upon the warring passions of man, and, for a time, they seemed
stilled. Its white banners of snow proclaimed a truce--the trace
of God--through all the land. Apprehensions of a sterner conflict
during the coming year filled every mind, but caused no dismay,--
only a firm resolve to do and dare--to conquer or to die--for
their firesides and their homes.

Neville Trueman toiled through the wintry woods, the snowdrifts,
and the storms to break the bread of life to the scattered
congregations of his far-extended circuits. His own flock, who
knew the man, knew how his loyalty had been tested, and what
sacrifices he had made for his adopted country. By a few religious
and political bigots, however, his American origin was a cause of
unjust suspicion and aspersion, which stung to the quick his
sensitive nature. He was especially made to feel the unreasoning
and bitter antipathy of the Indians to the nation of American
"long-knives," with whom they classed him, notwithstanding his
peaceful calling and his approved loyalty.

One day Trueman entered the bark wigwam of an Indian chief, for
the double purpose of obtaining shelter from a storm and of trying
to teach the truths of the Christian religion to those devotees of
pagan superstition. He found several young braves assembled at a
sort of council, gravely smoking their long pipes in dignified
silence. His entrance was the occasion of not a few dark scowls
and sinister glances.

"Ugh! Yankee black-robe," sneered one of the braves. "Friend of
the 'long-knives.' The day of fight at Big Rapids him strike up my
arm as me going to tomahawk Yankee prisoner. Had great mind to
kill him, too."

"Ugh!" echoed another; "me see him helping wounded 'long-knife,'
just like him brother."

"No! Him good King George's man," exclaimed the old chief, who had
seen his impartial ministration to the wounded of both armies.
"Him love Injun. Teach him pray to true Great Spirit."

But not always did he find such a true friend among the red men;
and not unfrequently was the scalping-knife half unsheathed, or
the tomahawk grasped, and dark brows scowled in anger, as he
sought the wandering children of the forest for their soul's
salvation. But their half-unconscious fear of the imagined power
of the pale-face medicine-man, their involuntary admiration of his
undaunted courage, and, let us add, the protecting providence of
God, prevented a hair of his head from being harmed.

The spring came at length with strange suddenness, as it often
comes in our northern land, causing a magical change in the face
of nature. A green flush overspread the landscape. The skies
became soft and tender, with glorious sunsets. The delicate-veined
white triliums and May-apples took the place of the snowdrifts in
the woods; and the air was fragrant and the orchards were abloom
with the soft pink and white apple-blossoms.

The little town of Niagara was like a camp. The long, low barracks
on the broad campus were crowded with troops, and the snowy gleams
of tents dotted the greensward. The wide grass-grown streets were
gay with the constant marching and counter-marching of red-coats,
and the air was vocal with the shrill bugle-call or the frequent
roll of the drums. Drill, parade, and inspection, artillery and
musket practice, filled the hours of the day. Fort George had been
strengthened, victualled, and armed. That solitary fort was felt
to be the key that, apparently, held possession of the south-
western peninsula of Canada.

One evening, early in May, a motley group were assembled in the
large mess-room of the log barracks of the fort. It was a long low
room built of solid logs. The thick walls were loop-holed for
musketry, and on wooden pegs, driven into the logs, the old Brown
Bess muskets of the soldiers were stacked. Rude bunks were ranged
along one side, like berths in a ship, for the men to sleep in.
The great square, naked timbers of the low ceiling were embrowned
with smoke, as was also the mantel of the huge open fire-place at
the end of the room. The rudely-carved names and initials on the
wall betrayed the labours of an idle hour. Around the ample
hearth, during the long winter nights, the war-scarred veterans
beguiled the tedium of a soldier's life with stories of battle,
siege, and sortie, under Moore and Wellington, in the Peninsular
wars; and one or two grizzled old war-dogs had tales to tell of

  "Hair-breadth 'scapes in the imminent deadly breach"--

of exploits done in their youth during Arnold's siege of Quebec,
or at Brandywine and Germantown.

Now the faint light of the tallow candles, in tin sconces, gleams
on the scarlet uniforms and green facings of the 49th regiment, on
the tartan plaid of the Highland clansman, on the frieze coat and
polished musket of the Canadian militiaman, and on the red-skin
and hideous war-paint of the Indian scout, quartered for the night
in the barracks. In one corner is heard the crooning of the
Scottish pipes, where old Allan Macpherson is playing softly the
sad, sweet airs of "Annie Laurie," "Auld Lang Syne," and "Bonnie
Doon;" while something like a tear glistens in his eye as he
thinks of the sweet "banks and braes" of the tender song.
Presently he is interrupted by a sturdy 49th man, who trolls a
merry marching song, the refrain of which is caught up by his
comrades:

 "Some talk of Alexander and some of Hercules,
  Of Hector and Lysander, and such great names as these;
    But of all the world's great heroes
      There are none that can compare,
    With a tow-row-row-row-row-row-row,
      To the British Grenadiers!"

In another corner old Jonas Evans, now a sergeant of militia, was
quietly reading his well-thumbed Bible, while others around him
were shuffling a greasy pack of cards, and filling the air with
reeking tobacco-smoke and strange soldiers' oaths. When a
temporary lull, in the somewhat tumultuous variety of noises
occurred, he lifted his stentorian voice in a stirring Methodist
hymn:

 "Soldiers of Christ, arise,
    And put your armour on,
  Strong in the strength which God supplies
    Through His eternal Son.
  Stand then against your foes,
    In close and firm array:
  Legions of wily fiends oppose
    Throughout the evil day."

The old man sang with a martial vigour as though he were charging
the "legions of fiends" at the point of the bayonet. In a shrewd,
plain, common-sense manner, he then earnestly exhorted his
comrades-in-arms to be on their guard against the opposing fiends
who especially assailed a soldier's life. "Above all," he said,
"beware of the drink-fiend--the worst enemy King George has got.
He kills more of the King's troops than all his other foes
together." Then, with a yearning tenderness in his voice, he
exhorted them to "ground the weapons of their rebellion and enlist
in the service of King Jesus, the great Captain of their
salvation, who would lead them to victory over the world, the
flesh, and the devil, and at last make them kings and priests
forever in His everlasting kingdom in the skies."

Those rude, reckless, and, some of them, violent and wicked men,
fascinated by the intense earnestness of the Methodist local-
preacher, listened with quiet attention. Even the Indian scout
seemed to have some appreciation of his meaning, and muttered
assent between the whiffs of tobacco-smoke from his carved-stone,
feather-decked pipe. The moral elevation which Christian-living
and Bible-reading will always give, commanded their respect, and
the dauntless daring of the old man--for they knew that he was a
very lion in the fight, and as cool under fire as at the mess-
table--challenged the admiration of their soldier hearts.

Once a drinking, swearing bigot constituted himself a champion of
the Church established by law, and complained to the commanding
major that "the Methody preacher took the work out of the hands of
their own chaplain,"--an easy-going parson, who much preferred
dining with the officers' mess to visiting the soldiers' barracks.

"If he preaches as well as he fights, he can beat the chaplain,"
said the major. "Let him fire away all he likes, the parson won't
complain; and some of you fellows would be none the worse for
converting, as he calls it. If you were to take a leaf out of his
book yourself, Tony, and not be locked up in the guard-house so
often, it would be better for you!"

With the tables thus deftly turned upon him, poor Antony Double-
gill, as he was nick-named, because he so often contrived to get
twice the regulation allowance of "grog," retired discomfitted
from the field.

While the group in the mess-room were preparing to turn into their
sleeping-bunks, the sharp challenge of the sentry, pacing the
ramparts without, was heard. The report of his musket and, in a
few moments, the shrill notes of the bugle sounding the "turn
out," created an alarm. The men snatched their guns and side-arms,
and were soon drawn up in company on the quadrangle of the fort.
The clang of the chains of the sally-port rattled, the draw-bridge
fell, the heavy iron-studded gates swung back, and three prisoners
were brought in who were expostulating warmly with the guard, and
demanding to be led to the officer for the night. When they were
brought to the light which poured from the open door of the guard-
room, it was discovered with surprise that two of the prisoners
wore the familiar red and green of the 49th regiment, and that the
third was in officer's uniform. But their attire was so torn,
burnt, and blackened with powder, and draggled and soaked with
water, that the guard got a good deal of chaffing from their
comrades for their capture.

"This is treating us worse than the enemy," said one of the
soldiers, "and that was bad enough."

The adjutant now appeared upon the scene to inquire into the cause
of the disturbance.

"I have the honour to bear despatches from General Sheaffe," said
the young officer; when the adjutant promptly requested him to
proceed to his quarters, and sent the others to the mess-room,
with orders for their generous refreshment.

There their comrades gathered round them, eagerly inquiring the
nature of the disaster, which, from the words that they had heard,
they inferred had befallen the left wing of the regiment,
quartered at the town of York. In a few brief words they learned
with dismay that the capital of the country was captured by the
enemy, that the public buildings and the shipping were burned,
that the fort was blown up, and that a heavy loss had befallen
both sides.

While the men dried their water-soaked clothes before a fire
kindled on the hearth, and ate as though they had been starved,
they were subject to a cross-fire of eager questions from every
side, which they answered as best they could, while busy plying
knife and fork, and "re-victualling the garrison," the corporal
said, "as though they were expecting a forty days' siege."

"And siege you may have, soon enough," said Sergeant Shenston, the
elder of the two men. "Chauncey and Dearborn will drop down on
_you_ before the week's out."

Disentangling the narrative of the men from the maze of questions
and answers in which it was given, its main thread was as follows:

Early on the morning of the 27th of April, Chauncey, the American
commodore, with fourteen vessels and seventeen hundred men, under
the command of Generals Dearborn and Pike, lay off the shore a
little to the west of the town of York, near the site of the old
French fort, now included in the new Exhibition Grounds. The town
was garrisoned by only six hundred men, including militia and
dockyard men, under Gen. Sheaffe. Under cover of a heavy fire,
which swept the beach, the Americans landed, drove in the British
outposts, which stoutly contested every foot of ground, and made a
dash for the dilapidated fort, which the fleet meanwhile heavily
bombarded. Continual re-enforcements enabled them to fight their
way through the scrub oak woods to within two hundred yards of the
earthen ramparts, when the defensive fire ceased. General Pike
halted his troops, thinking the fort about to surrender. Suddenly,
with a shock like an earthquake, the magazine blew up, and hurled
into the air two hundred of the attacking column, together with
Pike, its commander. [Footnote: The magazine contained five
hundred barrels of powder and an immense quantity of charged
shells.] Several soldiers of the retiring British garrison were
also killed. This act, which was defended as justifiable in order
to prevent the powder from falling into the hands of the enemy,
and as in accordance with the recognized code of war, was severely
denounced by the Americans, and imparted a tone of greater
bitterness to the subsequent contest.

The town being no longer tenable, General Sheaffe, after
destroying the naval stores and a vessel on the stocks, retreated
with the regulars towards Kingston. Colonel Chewett and three
hundred militiamen were taken prisoners, the public buildings
burned, and the military and naval stores, which escaped
destruction, were carried off. The American loss was over three
hundred, and that of the British nearly half as great. [Footnote:
See Withrow's History of Canada, 8vo. edition, chap. xxiii.]

"How did you get your clothes so burnt?" asked the corporal, when
the narrative was concluded, pointing to the scorched and powder-
blackened uniform of the narrator.

"It is a wonder I escaped at all," said Sergeant Shenstone. "I was
nearly caught by the explosion. I was helping a wounded comrade to
escape, when, looking over the ramparts, I beheld the enemy so
close that I could see their teeth as they bit the cartridges, and
General Pike, on the right wing, cheering them on--so gallant and
bold. I was a-feared I would be nabbed as a prisoner, and sent to
eat Uncle Sam's hard-tack in the hulks at Sackett's Harbour, when,
all of a sudden, the ground trembled like the earthquakes I have
felt in the West Indies; then a volcano of fire burst up to the
sky, and, in a minute, the air seemed raining fire and brimstone,
as it did at Sodom and Gomorrah. It seemed like the judgment-day.
I was thrown flat on the ground, and when I tried to get up I was
all bruised and burnt with the falling clods and splinters, and my
comrade was dead at my side. I crawled away as soon as I could--
there was no thought then of making prisoners."

"But what gar'd the magazine blaw up? Was it an accident?" asked
old Allan McPherson, the Highland piper, who had listened eagerly
to the tragic story.

"No accident was it. Sergeant Marshall, of the artillery, a
desperate fellow, who swore the enemy should lose more than they
would gain by taking the fort, laid and fired the train. The
General had already given the order to retreat, and knew nothing
of it."

"God forgie him!" exclaimed the old Scotchman. "Yon's no war ava--
it's rank murder. I can thole a fair and square stan up fecht, but
yon's a coward trick."

"Ye'd say so," said Private McIntyre, Shenstone's comrade, "gin ye
saw the hale place reeking like a shawmbles, an' the puir'
wretches lying stark and scaring like slaughtered sheep. I doubt
na it was a gran' blunder as weel as a gran' crime. Forbye killing
some o' oor ain folk it will breed bad bluid through the hale war.
I doubt na it will mak it waur for ye, for Fort George's turn mun
come next."

"I hear Dearborn swore to avenge the death of General Pike. All
the vessels' flags were half-mast, and the minute-guns boomed
while they rowed his dead body, wrapped in the stars and stripes,
to the flag-ship; and Chauncey carried off all the public
property, even to the mace and Speaker's wig from the Parliament
House, and the fire-engine of the town." [Footnote: These were
conveyed to Sackett's Harbour and deposited in the dockyard
storehouse, where they were exhibited as trophies of the
conquest.]

"How did you get away with the despatches?" asked Jonas Evans. "I
should think Chauncey would try to take us by surprise, but the
Lord would not let him."

"To avoid capture," said Shenstone, "Sheaffe placed the Don
between him and the enemy as soon as possible, and broke down the
bridge behind him. There were only four hundred of us altogether.
Captain Villiers, who had recovered from his wound, and Ensign
Norton set out on horseback, with despatches for Fort George; and,
in case they should be captured, Lieutenant Foster undertook to
convey them by water, and we volunteered to accompany him. We got
a fisherman's boat at Frenchman's Bay. It was a long, tough pull
across the lake, I tell you. At night the wind rose, and we were
drenched with spray and nearly perished with cold. After two days
hard rowing against head wind, we made land, but were afraid to
enter the river till nightfall. We slipped past Fort Niagara
without detection, but had like to be murdered by your sentry
here. We might well ask to be saved from our friends."

An unwonted stir soon pervaded the fort and camp. Again the
ponderous gates yawned and the draw-bridge fell, and orderlies
galloped out into the night to convey the intelligence to the
frontier posts, and to order the concentration of every available
man and gun at Fort George. The sentries were doubled on the
ramparts and along the river front. The entire garrison was on the
_qui vive_ against a surprise. The next day Captain Villiers,
with his companion, reached the fort, fagged out with their
hundred miles' ride in two days--they had been compelled to make a
wide _detour_ to avoid capture. The whole garrison was in a
ferment of excitement and hard work. Stores, guns, ammunition,
accoutrements were overhauled and inspected. The army bakery was
busy day and night. Forage and other supplies of every sort were
brought in. Extra rations were made ready for issue, and every
possible precaution taken against an anticipated attack, which, it
was felt, could not long be delayed.




CHAPTER VII.

THE FALL OF FORT GEORGE.


But short respite was granted before the fall of the blow which,
for a time, annihilated British authority on the frontier. On the
third day after the reception of the evil tidings of the capture
of York, Chauncey's fleet was seen in the offing; but for six days
adverse winds prevented it from landing the American troops
beneath the protection of the guns of Fort Niagara. Day after day
they stood off and on, but were unable to make the land. "The
stars in their courses fought against Sisera," said Jonas Evans,
as he watched the baffled fleet, "and the Lord, with the breath of
His mouth, fighteth for us."

At length, having landed General Dearborn and his troops, Chauncey
conveyed his wounded to Sackett's Harbour, the great American
naval depot on Lake Ontario, and hastened back with a strong body
of re-enforcements. The gallant Colonel Vincent, commandant at
Fort George, bated not a jot of heart or hope,--although he was
able to muster only some 1,400 troops. Yet these, with spade and
mattock, toiled day after day to strengthen its ramparts and
ravelins, and to throw up new earthworks and batteries. One fatal
want, however, was felt. The stock of ammunition was low, and as
Chauncey, with his fleet, had the mastery of the lake, it could
not be replenished from the ample supply at Fort Henry, at
Kingston.

At length the fateful day arrived. On the twenty-sixth of May, at
early dawn, Chauncey's ships, fifteen in number, were drawn up in
crescent form off the devoted town, their snowy sails gleaming in
the morning sun. On the opposite sides of the river the grim forts
frowned defiance at each other, and guarded, like stern warders,
the channel between them. The morning _reveille_ seemed the
shrill challenge to mortal combat. Sullen and silent, like
couchant lions, through the black embrasures the grim cannon
watched the opposite shores; and at length, from the feverish lips
of the guns of the American fort, as if they could no longer hold
their breath, leap forth, in breath of flame and thunder roar, the
fell death-bolts of war. The fierce shells scream through the air
and explode within the quadrangle of Fort George, scattering
destruction and havoc, or, perchance, bury themselves harmlessly
in the earthen ramparts. The ships take up their part in the
dreadful chorus. From their black sides flash forth the tongues of
flame and wreaths of smoke, and soon they get the range with
deadly precision. The British guns promptly reply. The gunners
stand to their pieces, though an iron hail is crashing all around
them. Now one and another is struck down by a splinter or fragment
of shell, and, while another steps into his place, is borne off to
the bomb-proof casemates, where the surgeon plies his ghastly but
beneficent calling.

For hours the deadly cannonade continues, but amid it all, the
dead General, buried in a disused bastion, sleeps calmly on:

"He has fought his last fight, he has waged his last battle, No
sound shall awake him to glory again."

Jonas Evans, who had been an old artilleryman, takes the place of
a wounded gunner, lifts the big sixty-eight pound balls, rams them
home, and handles the linstock as coolly as if on parade. "Bless
the Lord!" he said to a comrade while the piece was being pointed,
"I am ready to live or die; it's no odds to me. For me to live is
Christ, to die is gain. Sudden death would be sudden glory.
Hallelujah! I believe I am doing my duty to my country, to God and
man, and my soul is as happy as it can be this side heaven."

Strange words for such a scene of blood! Strange work for a
Christian man to do! It seems the work of demons rather than of
men, and yet godly men have, with an approving conscience, wielded
the weapons of carnal warfare. But in this much at least all will
agree: An unjust war is the greatest of all crimes, and even a
just war is the greatest of all calamities. And all will join in
the prayer, Give peace in our time, O Lord, and hasten the day
when the nations shall learn war no more!

Neville Trueman, who had a pass from Colonel Vincent to visit the
Methodist troops in the fort, felt himself summoned thither, as to
a post of duty, at the first sounds of the cannonade. He was soon
busily engaged, skilfully helping the surgeon and ministering
alike to the bodies and the souls of the wounded soldiers. He also
found time to visit the ramparts and speak words of cheer and
encouragement to the members of his spiritual flock. Although shot
and shell screamed through the air, and fragments and splinters
were flying in dangerous proximity, he felt himself sustained by
the grace of God. Amid these dreadful scenes he knew no fear, and
his calm serenity inspired confidence courage and in others.

The bombardment lasted a large part of the day. Fort George was
severely damaged. Several of its guns were dismounted, and the
whole place rendered almost untenable.

The night was one of much anxiety. The force of the enemy was
overwhelming. The fate of the fortress seemed certain; but
Vincent, with gallant British pluck, resolved to hold it to the
last. The wearied troops snatched what refreshment and repose they
could amid the confusion and discomfort and danger by which they
were surrounded. At intervals during the night the American fort
kept up a teasing fire, more for the purpose of causing annoyance
and preventing rest than with the object of doing any serious
damage. As a mere pyrotechnic spectacle it was certainly a grand
sight to watch the graceful curves of the live shells through the
air--a parabola of vivid brightness against the black sky, as the
burning fuse, fanned by its rapid motion, glowed like a shooting-
star. The loud detonation, and explosion of fiery fragments that
followed, however, was rather discomposing to the nerves, and
unfavourable for restful slumber to the weary warriors.

Another cruel refinement of war was still more disconcerting. In
order, if possible, to ignite the barracks, the gunners of Fort
Niagara kept firing at intervals red-hot cannon balls. A vigilant
look-out for these had to be kept, and a fire brigade was
specially organized to drown out any incipient conflagration that
might occur.

A similar compliment was paid by the artillerists of Fort George.
No little skill was required in handling these heavy red-hot
projectiles. In order to prevent a premature explosion of the
charge, a wet wad was interposed between the powder and the red-
hot ball. In the walls of Fort Mississauga, at Niagara, may still
be seen the fire-places for heating the shot for the purpose here
described.

But, notwithstanding the tumult, the roar of the cannon near at
hand, the explosion of shells, and the thud of the balls striking
the casemates, or burying themselves in the earthen ramparts, the
weary garrison snatched what repose was possible; for the morrow,
it was felt, would tax their energies to the utmost.

The morning of May 27th dawned as bright and beautiful as in
Eden's sinless garden--as fair as though such a deadly evil as war
were unknown in the world. The American shipping stood in closer
to the shore. The bombardment was renewed with intenser fury. It
was evident that an attempt was about to be made to laud a hostile
force on Canadian ground. Every available man, except those
required to work the guns of Fort George, and a guard over the
stores, as hurried down to the beach to prevent, if possible, the
landing. Boat after boat, filled with armed men, their bayonets
gleaming in the morning sunshine, left the ships, and, under cover
of a tremendous fire from the American fort and fleet, gained the
shore. First Colonel Scott, with eight hundred riflemen, effected
a landing. They were promptly met by a body of British regulars
and militia, and compelled to take refuge under cover of the steep
bank which lined the beach to the north of the town. From this
position they kept up a galling fire on the British troops in the
open field. The broadsides of the fleet also swept the plain, and
wrought great havoc among the brave militia defending their native
soil. To escape the deadly sweep of the cannon they were obliged
to prostrate themselves in the slight depressions in the plain.
Notwithstanding the inequality of numbers, the main body of the
enemy were three times repulsed before they could gain a foothold
on the beach.

At length, after three hours desperate struggle, a hostile force
of six thousand men stood upon the plain. The conflict then was
brief but strenuous. Many were the incidents of personal heroism
that relieved, as by a gleam of light, the darkness of the
tragedy. Jonas Evans was in the foremost files, and, as they lay
upon the ground, his comrade on either side was killed by round
shot from the ships, but, as if he bore a charmed life, he escaped
unhurt. Loker and McKay, while bearing off a wounded militia-man,
were captured, as were many others. At length the bugles sounded a
retreat. Slowly and reluctantly the British troops fell back
through the town. A strong rear-guard halted in the streets,
seeking the shelter of the houses, and stubbornly holding the foe
at bay while Vincent made his preparations for abandoning Fort
George. All that valour and fidelity could do to hold that
important post had been done. But how were a few hundred weary and
defeated men to withstand a victorious army of six-fold greater
strength? [Footnote: The details of the account above given were
narrated to the author by the venerable Father Brady, for many
years class-leader of the Methodist Church at Niagara, who was an
actor in the events described.]

The guns of the fort were spiked and overthrown, and baggage,
ammunition, and moveable stores were hastily loaded on teams
volunteered for the service, to accompany the retreat of the army.
With a bitter pang, Vincent ordered the destruction of the fort
which he had so gallantly defended. When the last man had retired,
with his own hand he fired the train which caused the explosion of
the powder magazine. When the victorious army marched in, they
found only the breached and blackened walls, the yawning gates,
and dismantled ramparts of the fort. From the shattered flagstaff,
where it still waved defiantly, though rent and seared by shot and
shell, the brave red-cross flag was hauled down and replaced by
the gaily fluttering stars and stripes.

Many a time has the present writer wandered over the crumbling and
grass-grown ramparts of the ruined fort, where the peaceful sheep
crop the herbage and the little children play. Some of the old
casemates and thick-walled magazines still remain, and are
occupied by the families of a few old pensioners. In these low-
vaulted chambers, with their deep and narrow embrasures, once the
scene of the rude alarum of war, often has he held a quiet
religious service with the lowly and unlettered inmates, who knew
little of the thrilling history of their strange abode.

Often at the pensive sunset hour, reclining in a crumbling
bastion, has he tried to rehabilitate the past, and to summon from
their lonely and forgotten graves upon the neighbouring
battlefield, or in quiet church-yards, it may be, far beyond the
sea, the groups of war-scarred veterans who once peopled the now
desolate fort.

Again is heard, in fancy, the quick challenge and reply, the
bugle-call, the roll of drums, the sharp rattle of musketry, the
deep and deadly thunder of the cannonade. How false and fading is
felt to be the glory of arms, and how abiding victories of peace,
more glorious than those of war!

  The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
    And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
  Await alike the inevitable hour:
    The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

But hark! a loud report awakes the dreamer from his reverie. It is
the sunset gun from old Fort Niagara; and as stern reality becomes
again a presence, the gazer's glance rests on the peaceful beauty
of the broad blue Lake Ontario, on which, at this quiet hour, so
many eyes, long turned to dust, have rested in the years forever
flown.




CHAPTER VIII.

THE FORTUNES OF WAR.


On the evening of the evacuation of Fort George, several of the
actors in the busy drama of the time were assembled in the great
kitchen of Squire Drayton's hospitable house. It was no time for
ceremony, so everybody met in the common living room. Captain
Villiers called to bid a hasty farewell to the kind family under
whose roof he had for several months abode as an invalid soldier,
and especially to take leave of the fair young mistress, through
whose care he had become convalescent. Neville Trueman had
resolved to follow the retreating army, both to avoid the
appearance of any complicity or sympathy with the invaders; and
that, in the severe conflict which was impending, his spiritual
services might be available to the militia, of whom a considerable
number were Methodists, and to such others as would accept them.
Zenas had obtained his father's consent to volunteer for the
militia cavalry service in this time of his country's need,
although it left the farm without a single man, except the squire
himself.

"The maids and I will plant the corn and cut the wheat, too," said
Kate, with the pluck of a true Canadian girl. "We'll soon learn to
wield the sickle, though you seem to doubt it, Captain Villiers,"
she went on, looking archly at the gallant captain, who smiled
rather incredulously.

"Nay, I am sure you will deserve to be honoured as the goddess
Ceres of your Canadian harvest-fields, by the future generations
of your country," politely answered the captain.

"I would rather serve my country in the present, than receive
mythical honours in the future," replied Kate.

"We'll be back before harvest to drive the Yanks across the river,
and get Sandy and Loker out of Fort Niagara," said Zenas. "Tom
would gnaw his very fetters off to get free, if he wore any. But
Sandy takes everything as it comes, as cool as you please. 'It was
all appointed,' he says, and 'all for the best.'"

"They will not keep the prisoners there," said the squire; "it is
too near the border. Chauncey will likely take them off to
Sackett's Harbour, and make them work in the dock-yards."

"They won't make McKay do that," said the captain; "it would be
against his conscience, and he would die first. He is the
staunchest specimen of an old stoic philosopher I ever came
across. Under the hottest fire to-day he was as cool as I ever saw
him on parade. As he stooped to raise a wounded comrade a round
shot struck and carried away his cartridge-box. Had he been
standing up it would have cut him in two. He never blanched, but
just helped the poor fellow off the field, when he was captured
himself."

"It is something more than stoicism," said Neville. "It is his
staunch Scotch Calvinism. It is not my religious philosophy; but I
can I honour its effects in others. It made heroic men of the
Ironsides, the Puritans, and the Covenanters; but so will a trust
in the loving fatherhood of God, without the doctrine of the
eternal decrees."

"We must not delay," said the captain. "The enemy's scouts will be
looking up stragglers," and after a hasty meal he, with Neville
and Zenas, rode away in the darkness, to join the rearguard of
Vincent's retreating army.

They had scarcely been gone five minutes when a loud knocking was
heard at the front door of the house, and, immediately after, the
trampling of feet in the hall. A peremptory summons was followed
by the bursting open of the kitchen door, when two flushed and
heated American dragoons, one a comet and the other a private,
stood on the threshold.

"Beg pardon, miss," said the officer, somewhat abashed at the
attitude of indignant surprise assumed by Katharine. "But is
Captain Villiers here? We were told he was."

"You see he is not," said the young girl, with a queenly sweep of
her arm around the room; "but you may search the house, if you
please."

"Oh, no occasion, as you say he is not here. I'll take the
liberty, if you please, to help myself to a slight refreshment,"
continued the spokesman, taking a seat at the table and beckoning
to his companion to do the same. "You'll excuse the usage of war.
We've had a hard day's work on light rations."

"You might at least ask leave," spoke up the squire, with a sort
of

 "An Englishman's house is his castle,
  An Englishman's crown is his hat,"

Air,--"We would not refuse a bit and sup, even to an enemy."

Glad of an excuse to detain the scouts as long as possible Kate
placed upon the table a cold meat-pie, of noble proportions, and a
flagon of new milk.

The troopers were valiant trencher-men, whatever else they were,
and promptly assaulted the meat-pie fort, as from its size and
shape it deserved to be called.

"You know this Captain Villiers, I suppose?" said the dragoon
subaltern at length; "I had particular instructions to secure his
capture."

"Oh yes! I know him very well," answered Kate. "He was here sick
for three months last winter."

"And very good quarters and good fare he had, I'll be bound," said
the fellow, with an air of insolent familiarity. "And when was he
here last, pray?"

 "About half-an-hour ago," said Kate, knowing that by this time he
must be beyond pursuit.

"Zounds!" cried the trooper, springing to his feet, "why did you
not tell me that before?"

"Because you did not ask me, sir," said the maiden demurely, while
her black eyes flashed triumph at her father, who sat in his arm
chair stolidly smoking his pipe.

With an angry oath, the fellows hurried out of the house as
unceremoniously as they had entered, when Kate and her father had
a merry laugh over their discomfiture.

Next morning the troopers appeared again, in angry humour. "That
was a scurvy trick you played us last night, old gentleman," said
the elder.

"No trick at all," said the squire. "I hope you were pleased with
your entertainment? Did you catch your prisoner?" he asked, with a
somewhat malicious twinkle of his eye towards Kate, who was in the
room.

"No, we didn't; but we came upon the enemy's rear-guard, and
nearly got captured ourselves. But you'll have to pay for your
little game, by liberal supplies for Dearborn's army."

The staunch old loyalist, who would willingly impoverish himself
to aid the King's troops, stoutly refused to give "a single groat
or oat," as he expressed it, to the King's enemies. It was
"against his conscience," he said.

"We'll relieve you of your scruples," said the officer. "I want
some of those horses in your pasture to mount my troop of
dragoons," and going oat of the house he ordered the half-score of
troopers without to dismount and capture the horses in the meadow.
The men, after a particularly active chase, captured three out of
six horses. The others defied every effort to catch them. The
troopers threatened to shoot them, but the cornet forbade it, and
ordered the squire to send them to head-quarters during the day--a
command which he declined to obey. Such were some of the ways in
which the loyal Canadians were pillaged of their property by their
ruthless invaders.

The squire indeed demanded a receipt from the officer for the
property thus "requisitioned."

"Oh yes! I'll give you a receipt," said that individual, "and much
good may it do you," and that was all the good it did do him, for
he never received a cent of compensation.

Colonel Vincent, in the meantime, had withdrawn the garrisons from
the frontier forts on the Niagara river. He retreated with sixteen
hundred men toward the head of the lake, and took up a strong
position on Burlington Heights, near Hamilton. In the now peaceful
Protestant cemetery to the west of the city may still be trace
among the graves the mouldering ramparts and trenches of this once
warlike camp. Dearborn despatched a force of three thousand men,
with two hundred and fifty cavalry and nine field-pieces, under
Generals Chandler and Winder, to dislodge the Canadian force. On
the 6th of June they encamped at Stony Creek, seven miles from
Vincent's lines. The position of the latter was critical. Niagara
and York had both been captured. Before him was a victorious foe.
His ammunition was reduced to ninety rounds. He was extricated
from his peril by a bold blow. Colonel John Harvey, having
reconnoitered the enemy's position, proposed a night attack.
Vincent heartily co-operated. At midnight, with seven hundred
British bayonets, they burst upon the American camp. A fierce
fight ensued in which the enemy were utterly routed. The British,
unwilling to expose their small number to a still superior force,
retired before daybreak, with four guns and a hundred prisoners,
including both of the American Generals. The victory, however, was
purchased with the loss of two hundred men killed or missing. A
venerable old lady, recently deceased, has described to the writer
the dreary procession of waggons laden with wounded men that filed
past her father's door on their return to the British head-
quarters. The battle was fought early on Sunday morning, near the
house of "Brother Gage," a good Methodist, as his appellation
indicates. [Footnote: Carroll's "Case and His Cotemporaries," Vol
I., p. 307.] On that sacred day, so desecrated by the havoc of
war, he gathered the neighbours together and buried the slain,
friend and foe, in one wide, common grave. Among the traditions of
the war is one which records that the boys of the Gage family
gathered up a peck of bullets which had been intercepted by the
stone fence bounding the lane that led to the house.

The Americans, after destroying their camp stores and leaving the
dead unburied, retreated to Forty Mile Creek, where they effected
a junction with General Lewis, advancing to their aid with two
thousand men. At daybreak on the 8th of June, the American camp
was shelled by Commodore Yeo's fleet. The enemy retreated to Fort
George, abandoning their tents and stores, which were captured by
Vincent. Their baggage, shipped by batteaux to the fort, was
either taken by the fleet or abandoned on the shore. [Footnote:
Withrow's History of Canada, 8vo. ed., chap. xxiii.1.316]




CHAPTER IX.

A BRAVE WOMAN'S EXPLOIT.


Neville Trueman, found ample occupation in ministering to the sick
and wounded, and in visiting his scattered flock throughout the
invaded territory. He was enabled, incidentally, to render
important service to his adopted country. It was toward the end of
June, that one afternoon he was riding through the forest in the
neighbourhood of the Beaver Dams, near the town of Thorold,--a
place which received its name from the remarkable constructions of
the industrious animal which has been adopted as the national
emblem of Upper Canada,--where there was a small force of British
troops posted. In the twilight he observed a travel-worn woman
approaching upon the forest pathway, with an air of bodily
weariness, yet of mental alertness and anxiety. As she drew near,
he recognized a worthy Canadian matron, whom he had, more than
once, seen in his congregation in the school-house at the village
of Chippewa.

"Why, Mrs. Secord!" he exclaimed, reining up his horse as she
attempted to pass him, furtively trying to conceal her face, "are
not you afraid to be so far from home on foot, when the country is
so disturbed?"

"Thank God it is you, Mr. Trueman!" she eagerly replied. "I was
afraid it might be one of the American scouts. 'Home,' did you
say? I have no home," she added in a tone of bitterness.

"Can't I be of some service to you? Where is your husband?"
Neville asked, wondering at her distraught air.

"Haven't you heard?" she replied. "He was sore wounded at
Queenston Heights, and will never be a well man again; and our
house was pillaged and burned. But we're wasting time; what reck
my private wrongs when the country is overrun by the King's
enemies? How far is it to the camp?"

"Farther than you can walk without resting," he answered." You
seem almost worn out."

"Nineteen miles I've walked this day, through woods and thicket,
without a bit or sup, to warn the King's troops of their danger."

"What danger?" asked Neville, wondering if her grief had not
somewhat affected her mind.

"The enemy are on the move--hundreds of them--with cannon and
horses. I saw them marching past my cottage this very morning, and
I vowed to warn the King's soldiers or die in the attempt. I
slipped unseen into the woods and ran like a deer, through bypaths
and, 'cross lots, and I must press on or I may be too late."

Not for a moment did this American-born youth hesitate as to his
duty to his adopted country. Wheeling his horse he exclaimed, "You
brave woman, you've nobly done your part, let me take you to the
nearest house and then ride on and give the alarm."

"I hoped to have done it myself," she said. "But it is best as it
is. Never mind me. Every minute is precious."

Without waiting for more words, Neville waved his hand in
encouragement, and putting spurs to his horse was out of sigh in a
moment. In a few minutes he galloped up to the post held by the
British picket, and flung himself off his reeking steed--incurring
imminent risk of being bayoneted by the sentry, because he took no
notice of his peremptory challenge. Bursting into the guard-room,
he called for the officer of the day, Lieutenant Fitzgibbon. A few
words conveyed the startling intelligence--the alarm was promptly
given--the bugle sounded the "turn cut"--the guard promptly
responded--the men rushed to arms. Messengers were despatched to
an outpost where Captain Ker was posted with two hundred Indians,
and to Major de Heren, commanding a body of troops in the rear.

Neville, followed by two files of soldiers, returned to meet the
brave Canadian matron to whose patriotic heroism was due the
rescue of the little post from an unexpected attack by an
overwhelming force. They found her almost fainting from fatigue
and the reaction from the overstrung tension of her nerves.
Leaping from his horse, Neville adjusted his cloak so as to make a
temporary side-saddle, and placed the travel-worn woman thereon.
Walking by her side, he held the bridle-rein and carefully guarded
the horse over the rugged forest path, the two soldiers falling
behind as a rear-guard. As they approached the post at Beaver
Dams, the redcoats gave a hearty British cheer. The guard turned
out, and presen