Whatever his plan, he would set about it quickly, and Macomb studied the enemy's camp with a keen, discerning eye, but nothing suggesting a change was visible when the sun sank in the rainy west.
It was vital that he know it at once when an important move was begun, and as soon as the night came down, a score of the swiftest scouts were called for. All were young men; most of them had been in McGlassin's band. Rolf was conspicuous among them for his tall figure, but there was a Vermont boy named Seymour, who had the reputation of being the swiftest runner of them all.
They had two duties laid before them: first, to find whether Prevost's army was really retreating; second, what of the regiment he sent up the Saranac to perform the flank movement.
Each was given the country he knew best. Some went westerly, some followed up the river. Rolf, Seymour, and Fiske, another Vermonter, skimmed out of Plattsburg harbour in the dusk, rounded Cumberland Bend, and at nine o'clock landed at Point au Roche, at the north side of Treadwell's Bay.
Here they hid the canoe and agreeing to meet again at midnight, set off in three different westerly directions to strike the highway at different points. Seymour, as the fast racer, was given the northmost route; Rolf took the middle. Their signals were arranged—in the woods the barred-owl cry, by the water the loon; and they parted.
The woods seemed very solemn to Rolf that historic September night, as he strode along at speed, stopping now and again when he thought he heard some signal, and opened wide his mouth to relieve his ear-drums of the heart-beat or to still the rushing of his breath.
In half an hour he reached the high-road. It was deserted. Then he heard a cry of the barred owl:
Wa—wah—wa—wah Wa—wah—wa—hooooo-aw.
He replied with the last line, and the answer came a repeat of the whole chant, showing that it might be owl, it might be man; but it was not the right man, for the final response should have been the hooooo-aw. Rolf never knew whence it came, but gave no further heed.
For a long time he sat in a dark corner, where he could watch the road. There were sounds of stir in the direction of Plattsburg. Then later, and much nearer, a couple of shots were fired. He learned afterward that those shots were meant for one of his friends. At length there was a faint tump ta tump ta. He drew his knife, stuck it deep in the ground, then held the handle in his teeth. This acted like a magnifier, for now he heard it plainly enough—the sound of a horse at full gallop—but so far away that it was five minutes before he could clearly hear it while standing. As the sound neared, he heard the clank of arms, and when it passed, Rolf knew that this was a mounted British officer. But why, and whither?
In order to learn the rider's route, Rolf followed at a trot for a mile. This brought him to a hilltop, whither in the silent night, that fateful north wind carried still the sound
te—rump te—rump te—rump.
As it was nearly lost, Rolf used his knife again; that brought the rider back within a mile it seemed, and again the hoof beat faded, te—rump te—rump.
"Bound for Canada all right," Rolf chuckled to himself. But there was nothing to show whether this was a mere despatch rider, or an advance scout, or a call for reinforcements.
So again he had a long wait. About half-past ten a new and larger sound came from the south. The knife in the ground increased but did not explain it. The night was moonless, dark now, and it was safe to sit very near the road. In twenty minutes the sound was near at hand in five, a dark mass was passing along the road. There is no mistaking the language of drivers. There is never any question about such and such a voice being that of an English officer. There can be no doubt about the clank of heavy wheels—a rich, tangy voice from some one in advance said: "Oui. Parbleu, tows ce que je sais, c'est par la." A body of about one hundred Britishers, two or three wagons, guns, and a Frenchman for guide. Rolf thought he knew that voice; yes, he was almost sure it was the voice of Francios la Colle.
This was important but far from conclusive. It was now eleven. He was due at the canoe by midnight. He made for the place as fast as he could go, which, on such a night, was slow, but guided by occasional glimpses of the stars he reached the lake, and pausing a furlong from the landing, he gave the rolling, quivering loon call:
Ho-o-o-o-ooo-o Ho-o-o-o-ooo-o. Hooo-ooo.
After ten seconds the answer came:
Ho-o-o-o-o-o-o-o Hoo-ooo.
And again after ten seconds Rolf's reply:
Hoo-ooo.
Both his friends were there; Fiske with a bullet-hole through his arm. It seemed their duty to go back at once to headquarters with the meagre information and their wounded comrade. But Fiske made light of his trouble—it was a mere scratch—and reminded them that their orders were to make sure of the enemy's movements. Therefore, it was arranged that Seymour take back Fiske and what news they had, while Rolf went on to complete his scouting.
By one o'clock he was again on the hill where he had marked the horseman's outward flight and the escorted guns. Now, as he waited, there were sounds in the north that faded, and in the south were similar sounds that grew. Within an hour he was viewing a still larger body of troops with drivers and wheels that clanked. There were only two explanations possible: Either the British were concentrating on Chazy Landing, where, protected from MacDonough by the north wind, they could bring enough stores and forces from the north to march overland independent of the ships, or else they were in full retreat for Canada. There was but one point where this could be made sure, namely, at the forks of the road in Chazy village. So he set out at a jog trot for Chazy, six miles away.
The troops ahead were going three miles an hour. Rolf could go five. In twenty minutes he overtook them and now was embarrassed by their slowness. What should he do? It was nearly impossible to make speed through the woods in the darkness, so as to pass them. He was forced to content himself by marching a few yards in their rear.
Once or twice when a group fell back, he was uncomfortably close and heard scraps of their talk.
These left little doubt that the army was in retreat. Still this was the mere chatter of the ranks. He curbed his impatience and trudged with the troop. Once a man dropped back to light his pipe. He almost touched Rolf, and seeing a marching figure, asked in unmistakable accents "Oi soi matey, 'ave ye a loight?"
Rolf assumed the low south country English dialect, already familiar through talking with prisoners, and replied: "Naow, oi oin't a-smowking," then gradually dropped out of sight.
They were nearly two hours in reaching Chazy where they passed the Forks, going straight on north. Without doubt, now, the army was bound for Canada! Rolf sat on a fence near by as their footsteps went tramp, tramp, tramp—with the wagons, clank, clank, clank, and were lost in the northern distance.
He had seen perhaps three hundred men; there were thirteen thousand to account for, and he sat and waited. He did not have long to wait; within half an hour a much larger body of troops evidently was approaching from the south; several lanterns gleamed ahead of them, so Rolf got over the fence, but it was low and its pickets offered poor shelter. Farther back was Judge Hubbell's familiar abode with dense shrubbery. He hastened to it and in a minute was hidden where he could see something of the approaching troops. They were much like those that had gone before, but much more numerous, at least a regiment, and as they filled the village way, an officer cried "Halt!" and gave new orders. Evidently they were about to bivouac for the night. A soldier approached the picket fence to use it for firewood, but an officer rebuked him. Other fuel, chiefly fence rails, was found, and a score or more of fires were lighted on the highway and in the adjoining pasture. Rolf found himself in something like a trap, for in less than two hours now would be the dawn.
The simplest way out was to go in; he crawled quietly round the house to the window of Mrs. Hubbell's room. These were times of nervous tension, and three or four taps on the pane were enough to arouse the good lady. Her husband had come that way more than once.
"Who
is it?" she demanded, through a small opening of the sash.
"Rolf Kittering," he whispered, "the place is surrounded by soldiers; can't you hide me?"
Could she? Imagine an American woman saying "No" at such a time.
He slipped in quietly.
"What news?" she said. "They say that MacDonough has won on the Lake, but Plattsburg is taken."
"No, indeed; Plattsburgh is safe; MacDonough has captured the fleet. I am nearly sure that the whole British army is retiring to Canada."
"Thank God, thank God," she said fervently, "I knew it must be so; the women have met here and prayed together every day, morning and night. But hush!" she laid a warning finger on her lips and pointed up toward one of the rooms—"British officer."
She brought two blankets from a press and led up to the garret. At the lowest part of the roof was a tiny door to a lumber closet. In this Rolf spread his blankets, stretched his weary limbs, and soon was sound asleep.
At dawn the bugles blew, the camp was astir. The officer in the house arose and took his post on the porch. He was there on guard to protect the house. His brother officers joined him. Mrs. Hubbell prepared breakfast. It was eaten silently, so far as Rolf could learn. They paid for it and, heading their regiment, went away northward, leaving the officer still on the porch.
Presently Rolf heard a stealthy step in his garret, the closed door was pushed open, and Mrs. Hubbell's calm, handsome face appeared, as, with a reassuring nod, she set down a mug of coffee, some bread, and a bowl of mush and milk. And only those who have travelled and fasted for twelve hours when they were nineteen know how good it tasted.
From a tiny window ventilator Rolf had a view of the road in front. A growing din of men prepared him for more troops, but still he was surprised to see ten regiments march past with all their stores—a brave army, but no one could mistake their looks; they wore the despondent air of an army in full retreat.
Chapter 83.
The Last of Sir George Prevost
The battle was over at Plattsburg town, though it had not been fought; for the spirit of MacDonough was on land and water, and it was felt by the British general, as well as the Yankee riflemen, as soon as the Union Jack had been hauled from the mast of the Confiance.
Now Sir George Prevost had to face a momentous decision: He could force the passage of the Saranac and march on to Albany, but his communications would be cut, and he must rely on a hostile country for supplies. Every day drew fresh bands of riflemen from the hills. Before he could get to Albany their number might exceed his, and then what? Unless Great Britain could send a new army or a fleet to support him, he must meet the fate of Burgoyne. Prevost proposed to take no such chances and the night of the 11th eight hours after MacDonough's victory, he gave the order "Retire to Canada."
To hide the move as long as possible, no change was made till after sundown; no hint was given to the beleaguered town; they must have no opportunity to reap the enormous advantages, moral and material, of harrying a retreating foe. They must arise in the morning to find the enemy safely over the border. The plan was perfect, and would have been literally carried out, had not he had to deal with a foe as clever as himself.
How eagerly Rolf took in the scene on Chazy Road; how much it meant! how he longed to fly at his fastest famous speed with the stirring news. In two hours and a half he could surely let his leader know. And he gazed with a sort of superior pride at the martial pomp and bravery of the invaders driven forth.
Near the last was a gallant array of gentlemen in gorgeous uniforms of scarlet and gold; how warlike they looked, how splendid beside the ill-clad riflemen of Vermont and the rude hunters of the Adirondacks. How much more beautiful is an iron sword with jewels, than a sword of plain gray steel.
Dame Hubbell stood in her door as they went by. Each and all saluted politely; her guard was ordered to join his regiment. The lady waved her sun-bonnet in response to their courteous good-bye, and could not refrain from calling out:
"How about my prophecy, Sir George, and those purses?"
Rolf could not see his hostess, but he heard her voice, and he saw the astonishing effect:
The British general reined in his horse. "A gentleman's word is his bond, madam," he said. "Let every officer now throw his purse at the lady's feet," and he set the example. A dozen rattling thuds were heard and a dozen officers saluting, purseless, rode away.
A round thousand dollars in gold the lady gathered on her porch that morning, and to this day her grand-kin tell the tale.
Chapter
84. Rolf Unmasks the Ambush
Rolf's information was complete now, and all that remained was to report at Plattsburg. Ten regiments he had counted from his peep hole. The rear guard passed at ten o'clock. At eleven Mrs. Hubbell did a little scouting and reported that all was quiet as far as she could see both ways, and no enemy in sight anywhere.
With a grateful hand shake he left the house to cover the fourteen miles that lay between Chazy and Plattsburg.
Refreshed and fed, young and strong, the representative of a just and victorious cause, how he exulted in that run, rejoicing in his youth, his country, his strength, his legs, his fame as a runner. Starting at a stride he soon was trotting; then, when the noon hour came, he had covered a good six miles. Now he heard faint, far shots, and going more slowly was soon conscious that a running fight was on between his own people and the body of British sent westward to hold the upper Saranac.
True to the instinct of the scout, his first business was to find out exactly what and where they were. From a thick tree top he saw the red-coats spotting an opening of the distant country. Then they were lost sight of in the woods. The desultory firing became volley firing, once or twice. Then there was an interval of silence. At length a mass of red-coats appeared on the highway within half a mile. They were travelling very fast, in full retreat, and were coming his way. On the crest of the hill over which the road ran, Rolf saw them suddenly drop to the ground and take up position to form a most dangerous ambuscade, and half a mile away, straggling through the woods, running or striding, were the men in the colours he loved. They had swept the enemy before them, so far, but trained troops speedily recover from a panic, if they have a leader of nerve, and seeing a noble chance in the angle of this deep-sunk road, the British fugitives turned like boars at bay. Not a sign of them was visible to the Americans. The latter were suffering from too much success. Their usual caution seemed to have deserted them, and trotting in a body they came along the narrow road, hemmed in by a forest and soon to be hedged with cliffs of clay. They were heading for a death-trap. At any price he must warn them. He slid down the tree, and keeping cover ran as fast as possible toward the ambush. It was the only hill near—Beekman's Rise, they call it. As far as possible from the red-coats, but still on the hill that gave a view, he leaped on to a high stump and yelled as he never did before: "Go back, go back! A trap! A trap!" And lifting high his outspread hands he flung their palms toward his friends, the old-time signal for "go back."
Not twice did they need warning. Like hunted wolves they flashed from view in the nearest cover. A harmless volley from the baffled ambush rattled amongst them, and leaping from his stump Rolf ran for life.
Furious at their failure, a score of red-coats, reloading as they ran, came hot-footed after him. Down into cover of an alder swamp he plunged, and confident of his speed, ran on, dashing through thickets and mudholes. He knew that the red-coats would not follow far in such a place, and his comrades were near. But the alder thicket ended at a field. He heard the bushes crashing close at hand, and dashed down a little ravine at whose lower edge the friendly forest recommenced. That was his fatal mistake. The moment he took to the open there was a rattle of rifles from the hill above, and Rolf fell on his face as dead.
It was after noontide when he fell; he must have lain unconscious for an hour; when he came to himself he was lying still in that hollow, absolutely alone. The red-coats doubtless had continued thei
r flight with the Yankee boys behind them. His face was covered with blood. His coat was torn and bloody; his trousers showed a ragged rent that was reddened and sopping. His head was aching, and in his leg was the pain of a cripplement. He knew it as soon as he tried to move; his right leg was shattered below the knee. The other shots had grazed his arm and head; the latter had stunned him for a time, but did no deeper damage.
He lay still for a long time, in hopes that some of his friends might come. He tried to raise his voice, but had no strength. Then he remembered the smoke signal that had saved him when he was lost in the woods. In spite of his wounded arm, he got out his flint and steel, and prepared to make a fire. But all the small wood he could reach was wet with recent rains. An old pine stump was on the bank not far away; he might cut kindling-wood from that to start his fire, and he reached for his knife. Alas! its case was empty. Had Rolf been four years younger, he might have broken down and wept at this. It did seem such an unnecessary accumulation of disasters. Without gun or knife, how was he to call his friends?
He straightened his mangled limb in the position of least pain and lay for a while. The September sun fell on his back and warmed him. He was parched with thirst, but only thirty yards away was a little rill. With a long and fearful crawling on his breast, he dragged himself to the stream and drank till he could drink no more, then rested, washed his head and hands, 'and tried to crawl again to the warm place. But the sun had dropped behind the river bank, the little ravine was in shadow, and the chill of the grave was on the young man's pain-racked frame.
Shadows crossed his brain, among them Si Sylvanne with his quaint sayings, and one above all was clear:
"Trouble is only sent to make ye do yer best. When ye hev done yer best, keep calm and wait. Things is comin' all right." Yes, that was what he said, and the mockery of it hurt him now.
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