CHAPTER XXV
TAKEN AS A SPY
The Frenchmen now began an earnest conversation in their native tongue, and they spoke so rapidly that Henry could understand little of what was being said. But he knew that they were talking about him, and more than once he heard his own name and that of Dave, and of his Uncle James mentioned, and once he heard them mention the trading-post on the Kinotah.
“Jean Bevoir is going to square accounts if he possibly can,” thought the young captive dismally. “He is going to make me suffer for all his troubles. How General Johnson could let such a rascal go is more than I can understand.”
At length the Frenchmen turned to prepare themselves something to eat, and one went out to care for the horses, which were stabled in a lean-to of the farmhouse. Then Henry’s bonds were examined and an additional strap passed over his lower limbs, after which the bench was let down, that he might lie at full length.
“Now, if you can sleep, you sleep,” said Bevoir roughly. “But do not try to get away, or ze bullet from a pistol shall find you verra soon.”
The Frenchmen laid down after this, and once again the farmhouse became quiet. Henry tried several times to free himself, but found the task impossible. At last worn out by the struggle, he too, passed into the land of dreams.
When the captive was released at daybreak he found himself so cramped that he could scarcely stand. His hands were now untied that he might eat the little breakfast allotted to him, and were then refastened in front of him.
Soon after this the farmhouse was left behind, and the whole party started down the river road single file, Henry taking turns in riding with each of the others. It was still cold and clear, and traveling was by no means easy. Yet the horses were of large build and covered many miles before being halted for midday lunch.
It was nightfall when the camp of a French outpost was discovered, quarter of a mile back from the St. Lawrence, and close to a settlement named Girot, since entirely abandoned. Here some fur traders, well known to Jean Bevoir, had erected something of a fort and stockade, and the French soldiers had taken possession.
The flare of several camp-fires lit up the outside of the fort, as the prisoner and his captors rode through the stockade gate. Here were assembled several companies of foot soldiers, and half a troop of French cavalry, under the command of Captain Rachepin, a burly fellow, who had won his position by daring work in the campaigns gone by.
“An English prisoner, eh?” he said, as he gazed at Henry. “That makes the third this week. Well, the more the merrier.” And without further ado Henry was thrown into a low, dirty hut, that did duty as a prison.
Two other prisoners were already in the hut, one an English grenadier, and the other a ranger from New Hampshire. Both were half-starved, and each had been captured while miles away looking for game for their own camp larder.
“Hit’s ’ard luck, my boy,” sighed the grenadier gloomily. “Hi didn’t hexpect nothink like hit when I took the King’s shilling, Hi can tell ye that.”
“Never seed nothin’ like them pesky garlic-eaters,” said the ranger. “Neow deown ter our camp we treated the prisoners fair an’ square, but here—gee shoo! Why, the eatin’ aint fit for hogs, let alone human critters!”
“Perhaps they haven’t enough for themselves,” answered Henry.
“They ’ave that,” put in the grenadier. “Hi ’ave seen hit with my hown blessed heyes. But the bloomin’ tykes are selfish. They ’ave flip and spruce beer galore, but hit is nothink but cold water fer us, with stale bread an’ salt pork as is worse than stale!” And the grenadier heaved a long sigh. “Hif ever Hi git ’ome again, strike me dead hif Hi leave a second time!”
“An’ thet aint the wust on it, not by er jugful,” continued the ranger, who rejoiced in the name of Pity-All-Sinners Skinner, but was called Pit for short. “When I got ketched I had a’most seven shillin’s in my pocket, an’ neow I aint got a smell on’t, flay ’em!”
“I don’t suppose you gave them the money,” remarked Henry.
“Gave it to ’em? Not by er jugful! I’ll see ’em all drawn an’ quartered fust! They took it—stole it plain and simple. But yeou jest wait! This here war aint done yet—an’ Pit Skinner aint dead yet nuther!” concluded the ranger, with a wrathful shake of his head.
For several days nobody came near Henry outside of the guard who brought in the miserable prison fare, already mentioned by the grenadier and the New Hampshire ranger. It was certainly food scarcely fit to eat, and it was a whole day before the young soldier could touch it. But a keen appetite can overcome many objections, and at last he ate just enough to satisfy the intense craving of his stomach. Even the drinking water was poor, and, as Pity-All-Sinners Skinner said, hardly fit for washing.
On the Monday following Henry’s arrival at the post a messenger came in with some important dispatches. Following this there was a good deal of bustle and excitement, and soon some guards appeared and told the prisoners to get ready for a journey.
“Where are we going now?” asked Henry, but the guard addressed either could not, or would not, answer the question.
Chained together, hand-to-hand, the three were made to march from the fort. The foot soldiers of the French were already in the ranks and the prisoners were placed in their midst. Then the little column moved off by fours, up the St. Lawrence, in the direction of Montreal.
“Something has happened, thet’s certain,” said Skinner. “Looks ter me like a retreat.”
The march of the soldiers with their prisoners was kept up for three days, when the outskirts of Montreal were reached. Then came other dispatches for the commander of the little column, and the prisoners were sent into the city under a guard of six men, while the main body of the soldiery moved eastward again.
At the time of which I write, Montreal, now a large and flourishing city, was but a small town, consisted principally of low one- and two-storied houses, of logs and stone. There were several stores, or rather trading shops and some little shipping during the summer time, along the waterfront. The people, mostly Catholics, were very religious and had three churches and also a seminary, which, on account of its towers, could be seen from a great distance.
The defenses of the town were not many and the place had suffered much from having quartered the army of Montcalm on more than one occasion. During those times the French soldiers had eaten very nearly all the food in sight, leaving the town people to famish. Business and trading were almost at a standstill, and at times even money could not procure the necessities of life.
On entering Montreal Henry saw but little of the place, for he was hurried without ceremony to a stone building which the French had turned into an army prison. In this building were huddled over a score of prisoners of all descriptions—a motley, half-dressed and half-starved crowd, some grenadiers, some rangers, and some civilians. Everybody in the crowd was out of humor, and groans and curses were frequent. But the prisoners did not dare to talk too loudly, for if they did, a guard would appear and threaten them with solitary confinement in a stone cell under one of the churches.
“What an awful place to stay in,” was Henry’s mental comment. He found himself pushed hither and thither, while the stench of the prison made him literally sick. “This is Jean Bevoir’s work. He will make me suffer as much as he possibly can.”
After a good deal of pushing and shoving, Henry found himself in something of an alcove, and here dropped on the bench which was built around two sides of the room. Beside him sat an old soldier, who was suffering from a heavy cold, and who coughed continually.
“It is not fit for a dog here,” said the old soldier. “I have been here two weeks, and I know. They mean to kill us all off.”
“Two weeks—in this hole!” cried Henry.
“Yes, and that is nothing. Some of the poor fellows have been here three months.”
“I couldn’t stand it—I’d—I’d die for the want of fresh air.”
“And that is what they want you to do. When you die they won’t have to feed you any more.” The cough of the old soldier grew steadily worse, and, although, at the last moment a surgeon came and gave him a little medicine, he died eight days later, and was carried away for burial in a trench outside of the town.
Henry had been separated from Pity-All-Sinners Skinner and from the English grenadier, and so knew absolutely nobody in the prison. More than this, no one seemed to care for him, and, if the truth must be told, he likewise cared for nobody. Everybody felt miserable and it was in very truth a struggle to keep body and soul together and to keep from catching some fatal disease.
The young soldier was in the prison over a month before Jean Bevoir came to see him. The French trader could only speak to him through the rudely slatted door and in the presence of the other captives.
“I trust zat you like ze surroundings,” said Bevoir, with a sickly grin. “It ees just suited to you, hey?”
“You’re a miserable scoundrel, Bevoir!” burst out Henry. “What have you told the commander about me?”
“I haf tole him zat you are a spy an’ a verra deep one, too! Some day, ven he has ze time, he vill bring you up before ze military court.”
“And then?” questioned the young soldier.
Jean Bevoir shrugged his lean shoulders.
“Zen you can die ze death of ze spy, and it ees vat you an’ all your familee deserve. Ees not zat von pleasant thought, hey?”
And with a sinister leer the French trader moved away from the slatted door and left the prison as rapidly as he had entered it.
As for poor Henry, his feelings can be better imagined than described. Walking to a corner of the cell he threw himself down on the bench, almost overcome. The last door of hope seemed to be shut against him.