Shoulder to shoulder

CHAPTER XII.

RED-EYE, THE INDIAN CHIEF—A TERRIBLE ADVENTURE
WITH A BEAR—BAD NEWS!—STOLEN OR KILLED BY
INDIANS.

The war in Upper Canada may be said to have ended before the winter of 1814-15. Ended indeed in General Drummond's terrible but abortive attack or assault on Fort Erie, in which he lost about five hundred in killed and wounded.

The general, although reinforced, dared not attack again, "but," as Alison says, "contented himself with drawing closer the investment, and cooping the large American army up in a corner of British territory, where they were rendered perfectly useless during the remainder of the campaign."

Meanwhile, however, ships were being built, and gunboats too, both for the British and Americans to float and fight on the great inland seas and lakes, and this with the intention on the American side to make one more effort to conquer Canada in the ensuing spring.

If, however, I were to tell you of the battles, by land and sea, which took place this year between Britain and America, further south than Canada, although I might succeed in interesting some of my readers on this side of the Atlantic, I might irritate my good friends on the other.

While the good weather lasted, and the bright and beautiful Indian summer, life in camp, in log huts, or in houses was delightful enough to my grandfather and his wife, with my little mother, Mary Robertson, to say nothing of Tonal's Spanish wife herself.

The woods and forests, the lakes and streams, and the rugged hills were clad in all the glory and colour of a late autumn.

My mother was a true fille du regiment, and continued to be as much a favourite and as much beloved by officers and men on shore as she had been at sea.

The Indians in those times were far more numerous in the forests and hills, in the great lake districts, than they are now. Neither British nor Americans have ever meted out to them any very great measure of justice. In fact it has been very much the reverse. We have driven them back, back, back, before us; we have taken their territories over and over again; we have cheated and robbed them, and when they have retaliated and taken the revenge that red men always will, we have declared against them a war of extermination, or almost; we seemed to forget that they were human beings, and shot them down like wolves.

These poor, brave creatures assisted us greatly in the war against America. But they fought in a savage way, and mutilated even the wounded in a shocking and fearful manner. For the braves must have scalps to hang on poles, far away where their wigwams stood in forest glade, or by the peaceful streams that meandered through their territory.

These Indians, now that comparative peace had come, still lingered around our camps. They were, alas! too often led into excesses by the fire-water of the pale-faces.

Strangely enough, the child Mary exhibited not the slightest trace of fear in the company of these dusky warriors. She would even toddle off at times to their camp, and not be seen again for hours, when some of the Royal Scots, being sent in search of her, were sure to find her chatting gaily to squaws or braves, in their tents or by the log-fires.

But there were Indians also who hated the British, and hated also those tribes who had fought for the pale-faces, such as the Chippawas, the Wyandottes, and Minsees. With these, I believe, we were friendly on the whole, but far away in the west and north, was a tribe or branch of the Micmacs, whose hand appeared to be turned against everyone, and who were constantly on the war-path. They lived chiefly by their bows and arrows or spears, but of late years had made use of guns also, so that they were now considered still more dangerous and deadly.

Their wigwams stood on the shores of a beautiful, lonesome sheet of water, embosomed by woods, and to which they had given the euphonic name Eeowreeva, or Yewreeva, the Great Pike Lake. Here these red men had lived for many generations, more than Red-Eye, a friendly Micmac, who often visited the camp, could count on his fingers. They loved their home in the wild west, Red-Eye said, because no pale-face had ever yet come to see and seek their land.

This land, and all the hills and forests around it, was no reservation. It was simply a country into which the pale-face had not as yet penetrated.

But Red-Eye, or Led-Eye, as Mary called him, was no beauty to gaze upon. On the contrary, it was believed that, although he prided himself on the distance he could throw a spear, or his skill with a tomahawk, his chief pride lay in his stern and dreadful face, and in the number of scars he had on his body, many of which, he assured my grandmother, whom he often visited, had been received in fights and encounters with wild beasts, with bears and panthers, that he had followed, even to their very dens, and killed. In his own country he had been a chief.

Little Mary, my mother, used to listen with rapt attention to this semi-civilised savage's account of his adventures, as he squatted near the fire, wrapped in his great striped blanket.

But she must have been too young to understand much of what was said.

A strange sort of friendship, however, sprang up between the two.

Their love-making, if so it could be called, was droll in the extreme.

"Po' Led-Eye," she said one day, as she stood beside him, nursing one of his hands, on which were the marks left by a panther's teeth. "Po' Led-Eye. And the nasty wild beast cut you so! Did you kill the big cat, Led-Eye?"

"Ugh! child, yes, I kill he quick. With my spear I kill he. Hold my spear so."

"Ah! Ah! wild cat was all toveled (covered) wi' blood, wasn't he, Led-Eye?"

"Blood in streams!" said Red-Eye.

"O, how nice! Anazle (another) big tut (cut) on 'oo blow (your brow), po' Led-Eye, what make that tut?"

"The spear of a chief, child of my heart."

He smoothed her long fair hair as he spoke, and glanced lovingly into her blue eyes.

"Child of my heart! Hair like sunset clouds. Eyes and cheeks like stars and flowers. Child of my love!"

"'Oo iss, of tourse. Child of oor love. But 'oo kill the tief (chief) that troo the spear and cuttit oo blow. You kill him, quick, quick?"

"I kill him, plenty quick."

"And he bleeded all over?"

"Ugh! I wash my hands in his blood."

My little mother jumped for joy.

"How nice! how nice!" she cried, clapping her hands. "Tell the chile of oo love mo' stolies."

"Mary, Mary," cried my grandmother, "come here this instant, till I get you ready for bed."

"I think," said Tonal to my grandfather, as they lay on their blankets by the fire, "I think that Mary would grow up a splendid savage. Come here, Mary, and sit on my knee. Your mother won't put you to bed for just a little while, I'm sure."

"Not if she's good."

"I sit on oo knee bymeby, when po' Led-Eye does (goes) away to feep (sleep)."

"You like Red-Eye best, then?"

"Of tourse. Led-Eye mo' ugly as you.

"Nevah mind," she continued, patting the savage's cheek, "when I dlows (grows) up, I lun (run) away to the woods and be oo queen."

"It's all settled then, John," said Tonal.

"It would seem so, Tonal."

But Red-Eye's love-making did not end in mere words. Words are only froth, acts alone are solid, and he used to bring the "child of his love" many beautiful things from the forest—flowers, skins of beasts, and feathers of birds.

Once he brought her a live humming-bird, or one of an allied species. It soon died, however. Then he took much pains to cure it for her. He opened it slightly, and stuffed it with strange spices and musk. Then he rolled it in leaves, and laid it on a stone near the fire, and behold! in an hour it was embalmed and cured.

That little bird, in a tiny glass case, is on my table as I write. I would not part with it for all the world. All the world would be nothing to me, as I should not know what to do with it, but this little case, ah! what gladsome memories it brings me back.

Tonal and my grandfather used often to accompany Major Drake or Dr. McLeod in long rambles into the forests.

They would be away for two or even three days sometimes, and never return without the spoils of the chase, to the great delight of my little mother, Mary.

Part of these excursions was by boat, the other on shore.

Their guide was invariably Red-Eye.

He was a fearless fellow, and often led them into adventures that it would have been as well for them had they avoided.

On one of these occasions McLeod fired upon a great bear on a hillside. The brute was but grazed, and came rushing down upon him with a roar that seemed to rend the very rocks. Both man and bear went rolling down the brae, and powerful though the doctor was, he never could have come out of the adventure alive, had not Red-Eye been there. The Indian buried his tomahawk in the monster's neck. With a yell the bear now sprang at him, and had not O'Reilly, who was near, placed the muzzle of his gun close to the bear's ear and fired, poor Red-Eye would have told my little mother no more terrible stories.

Though badly bruised,

"Unwounded from the dreadful close
But breathless all McLeod arose."

Red-Eye appeared none the worse. He just shook himself and said, pointing to O'Reilly's gun:

"Ugh! Much good fire-stick."

But the spoils of the chase did not invariably consist of bears, or any other of the feræ, but game and pigeons. The latter were seen sometimes, not in flocks only, but in clouds, so that it was no uncommon thing for our heroes to bring them down with bullets.

I do not mean to say that the very bird that was aimed at always fell—-though with a good modern rifle and a good modern marksman this might have been the case—but so numerous were they that it was almost impossible to fire without hitting.

Some of the streams, away in the backwoods, teemed with fish. In fact, so numerous were these that one could scarcely call it sport to catch them.

One day, while my grandfather and Drake were in the woods, they got talking together about home, and the old scenes they had passed through, and the battles in which they had fought shoulder to shoulder.

Both had received letters only the day before.

"O, by the way, Sergeant," said Major Drake suddenly, "I have something to tell you.

"I had a letter from H——. You know he is a friend of the Duke—our particular Duke."

"The Duke of Kent?"

"Yes; and it seems H—— was telling his Royal Highness how your wife shot that terrible harpy on the battle-field, and saved your life.

"The Duke," continued Drake, "was enthusiastic, and he does not take wine to make him so, either.

"'Robertson,' he said, 'was one of the best non-commissioned officers I ever had on my staff, and right bravely but coolly he could do his duty in his regiment also.

"'And, H——,' he continued, 'the Highland battalion. of the Royal Scots will soon be au fait accompli, and I shan't forget my promise to Robertson.'"

"Thank Heaven," said my grandfather, "for that news! It has been my dream for years. Could I afterwards gain a captaincy in my company, and once lead it into action against the French, I would die happy. And you know, sir, I am no mere romancist.

"But, sir," he added, "with the fall of Napoleon and the restoration of the Bourbons, don't you think wars will cease all over the world, and that there won't be anymore use for Highland battalions?"

Drake laughed.

"Listen, Sergeant John," he said. "Mind, I'm no prophet, and never was, but—Napoleon is scotched, not killed."

"And pray, sir—who—or where——"

"Where did I get my information?"

"I fear I'm rude, sir, but that is what I was about to ask."

"Well, my good follow, a wee birdie told me."

That was a happy day all through for my grandfather.

Happy, that is, until eventide.

But as he was going singing up to his own log hut, with a bundle of birds over his left shoulder, he was surprised to find the men standing here and there in little groups. And he could not help imagining that they were looking at him in a kind of pitying way.

I have said little about Tonal's Spanish wife for the simple reason that there was little to tell; yet she had followed his fortunes all through the war, and proved a very great boon to the pipe-major, as he was now called.

She was here in camp.

Instead of little Mary running as usual to meet her father, it was poor Mrs. Tonal that came.

Her large, dark eyes were swimming in tears.

"O, Sergeant Robertson," she began, but the grief seemed to choke her utterance.

"Good heavens, girl, speak!" cried my grandfather. "Speak, I entreat of you! Has anything happened to my dear wife?"

"No, no," gasped the girl, for girl she was to all appearance. "She is gone to the Indian camp, but my husband has gone."

"Tonal gone?—dead?"

"Oh!" she cried, "we do not know, Mr. Robertson, but Mary, little Mary, too, has gone."

For a moment, forest, lake, and hill seemed to spin round, and my grandfather had almost fainted.

His daughter, whom he adored, lost, gone! It was too awful to think about.

He threw down his gun, threw down his game, and next moment was hurrying off to the Indian camp.

He would now, at all events, hear the very worst.

CHAPTER XIII.

"WHERE IS RED-EYE? I WILL KILL HIM!"—A SOLEMN
SCENE—THE MOONLIT FOREST.

On his way to the wigwam camp, as that of the Indians was called, he met stalwart McLeod.

"Ah!" said the soldier-surgeon, "I see you have heard the bad news."

My grandfather's face was set and stern, but very pale.

"No, Doctor," he replied. "Tonal's wife could tell me nothing, only that her husband and my child have disappeared."

"Yes, and—but can you bear the evil news, my good fellow?"

"I can bear anything—anything except suspense."

"Well, the facts, as far as we know them, are these. Our friendly Indians had arranged to-day to hold a feast far away in the forest. They went off in their war-paint. The pipe-major, with one man—Roberts, of your company—went with them, and poor wee Mary would not be left behind. You know your wife will trust her anywhere with Tonal."

"Yes, yes. O Doctor, pardon my impatience, but go on—go on."

"The Indians went off with great rejoicing, Tonal good-naturedly playing in front of them.

"At three o'clock the scattered remains of our Indians came into the camp by twos and threes, some sadly wounded, but no Tonal, no Mary, and no Roberts."

"Killed?"

"Roberts was killed at the first volley. For the Micmacs are on the war-path, and have come from afar to take revenge on our Indians. They seem to have known the very day they would hold this feast."

"Dr. McLeod, there is treason in the camp.

"Where is Red-Eye? I will kill him!"

"Stay, stay," cried the doctor; "do not be rash. I believe Red-Eye to be as faithful as he is simple and brave."

"Where is he, I say?"

"He has gone alone into the forest to seek for your child. If there is any man in our camp who can pick up a trail, it is he."

"Dr. McLeod, sir, he will never return; and I here make a vow—and let it be registered in heaven—I will follow him to the wilds of the farther west, and, when I find him, will slay him in his tracks."

"Robertson, my boy," said the kind-hearted doctor—"for you are but a boy to me—Red-Eye may be a savage, but he is also a Christian, and to the lake-side, after sunset, he has gone every night to pray. I happened to be there but two nights ago, when he stalked silently down, and knelt with his face to the west. Me he could not see, Robertson. I have heard eloquent prayers from many a pulpit, and at many a humble fireside far away in bonnie Scotland, but I never listened to so simple yet heart-o'erflowing prayer before. And you and your little daughter were prayed for in words of such passionate tenderness that I shall ne'er forget them."

There was a reaction now.

"God forgive me, Doctor, if I wrong the man."

Then he covered his face with his hands.

"Come, come, Robertson, do not take on so. There yet is hope, you know. Come, I shall have your wife and yourself on my hands as patients, if you break down thus."

* * * * *

A party, that had gone out to bury the dead and bring in more of the wounded, now came in. They bore, on a litter of branches, the lifeless body of Roberts, a young fair-haired lad, who had joined in Canada.

His terrible wounds were all in front, showing how well he had fought.

He, like all the other dead, and some of the wounded had been scalped.

The assault by the Micmacs, it seems, had been terribly sudden.

It was a wild mêlée, and terrible tulzie, but soon over.

As neither Tonal nor the child was found in the forest, it was evident that they had been taken prisoners.

Tonal would doubtless be tortured at the stake, but how about Mary? She would either be flung into the river or over the cliff, or stripped and dressed as a papoose, then handed over to the tender mercies of some horrid squaw, to be reared as a little savage.

Poor wee wonder! she had often expressed her wish to become a savage, and roam through the woods and wilds with the braves. Little did she know then what was about to befall her.

There would be no sleep for grandfather to-night, and little for anyone else.

Preparations were being hastily made, however, for an expedition against the Micmacs. It was hoped that, secure in the depth of the forests, and in their mountain fastnesses, they would not hurry homewards, but follow the chase for a time. But this was only conjecture. If they went directly towards their own country, there was but little chance of our people being able to overtake them.

Besides, there were no good guides. The knowledge of even the friendly Indians, concerning this hostile tribe, was but small, but they would do all they could.

The expedition would not start until daybreak; so it was at first arranged. Without proper guides, rashness would only mean disaster.

My grandfather lay down for a time, but sleep was, for once, banished from his eyes.

He was restless, wildly restless. So he got up and left the hut. He left his wife asleep, for sorrow, in some, often causes drowsiness.

He would have bent down and kissed her, had he not feared it would wake her, for her cheeks were even now wet with tears.

Grandfather passed the sentry, and went on towards the lake. The sight of a placid sea or lake seems to have a soothing effect upon the nerves.

What a beautiful night it was! Not a breath of wind!

The great round moon was struggling up through a ghostly fog, and her red beams turned the waves to a yellow-pinkish hue. The forest all around looked like rolling clouds of vapour, and the ground itself was so white, that at a little distance it seemed covered with snow. It was a solemn scene!

Nothing was heard, except now and then the mournful cry of a night-bird, and the shout of a watchful sentry. But the drone of the distant waterfall filled all the air, and the very trees appeared to vibrate to its rhythm.

No life was visible anywhere.

Grandfather was alone. Alone with his grief. Alone with God.

Yes, He could see him. He loved him still.

A very bright star shone high up in the east, and appeared to look down on the sorrowing father with kind and pitying eye.

He knelt near the lake to pray. It was no presumptuous prayer.

"If it be Thy will, O Father, who have always been my Guide and Friend——"

That was the first of it.

"If it be Thy will."

And prayer should never go further than this.

As he still knelt there, and the waters of the lake grew more and more silvery every minute, as the moon rose higher and higher, a tall figure came gliding from the forest, walking in its moccasins as silently as, they tell me, ghosts walk.

"Ugh!"

Grandfather started to his feet.

The moon shone full now in the face of the Indian, Red-Eye.

"Red-Eye, it is you. What is it you carry?"

Red-Eye held his burden by the hair aloft.

An Indian head, with half-open eyes and drooping jaw.

"Red-Eye, how came you by that ghastly trophy?"

The Indian only pointed to the west, threw the head down carelessly, and sat down.

"I tire, much tire," he said, as he leant on one arm and commenced to fill his wooden pipe.

Grandfather sat down beside him and waited. He knew the habits of Indian warriors.

He felt sure the man would speak anon.

The moon was in full silver flood now, and grandfather could watch Red-Eye, and note every expression on his wild uncouth face.

"Red-Eye's heart is heavy," he said at last.

"And my heart is heavy, Red-Eye."

"Indian can love more—much more than pale-face. I loved your lost child."

Grandfather drew nearer to him. He felt he could trust this strange man. He felt that now, for the first time.

"Long ago—long before the pale-face was sent by your great white chief to fight bad 'Merican man—I live in the sunset west. Soon quarrels rise. I love one Indian. Grat Pike love her too. We fight. All braves fight—but I kill my chief. Then I fly and live in the forest. Every man want to kill Red-Eye then. For years I live so. Meemee come too, but one night she die."

He paused for a minute, as if the memory of his grief had made him dumb.

"Then when pale-faces come, I come to your camp-fire. You not trust me. You think poor Red-Eye traitor and thief. You think I steal the child for my tribe."

"No, no, no, Red-Eye! I did doubt you, but now I think my eyes have been opened."

Red-Eye pointed with his pipe to the ghastly head.

"He one scout. One spy. Yes, he belong to my tribe. Ugh! He not tell more tale."

"And whither, think you, have they taken my child and my friend?"

"When I kill he, I go after my tribe. Your child I cannot see. Your friend play in my tribe's camp."

"Tonal playing! He must be mad!"

"No. Suppose not play, then——"

Red-Eye touched his neck with the point of his finger.

This was significant enough.

Then up sprang Red-Eye, tall, defiant, determined.

"Your men ready?"

"They will start to-morrow morning early."

"Too late! They start now!"

He pulled out his knife and quickly scalped the hideous head.

The scalp he hung to his girdle.

"Come," he said.

And grandfather followed mechanically, as it were.

His head was bent downwards. He walked as soldiers walk at the funeral of a well-beloved friend.

But he was hopeless. He would never see his little Mary-again. Of this he felt certain.

The Indian led the way to the hut occupied by Major Drake, and quickly that gallant officer responded to the summons.

Dr. McLeod came out with him. Both started when they saw the tall Indian with scalp and tomahawk in his girdle.

"Red-Eye, I am happy to see you," said the doctor.

"Come now," said Red-Eye, pointing to the moon. "I will guide you to the camp of the Micmacs. Come quick."

In less than half an hour O'Reilly, Drake, and McLeod, with fully half of my grandfather's company, had fallen in.

They were silent and grave, but the look of sternness on each face told that they meant business.

My grandfather ran in to say good-bye, and bid his wife and Tonal's be of good cheer and—just pray!

Then, in double file, and still in silence, men and officers marched away, guided by Red-Eye, and soon were lost to view, swallowed up, as it were, in the depths of that great white, moonlit forest.

CHAPTER XIV.

THE FIGHT WITH SAVAGES—A LONE GRAVE IN THE
FOREST—RETURN OF SPRING—NAPOLEON AT ST. HELENA.

At first the half-frozen leaves rustled crisp beneath the men's feet, but Red-Eye led them through the darkness of the great forest, into which hardly a ray of moonlight could find its way, and here the ground was soft, and the leaves made no noise.

Red-Eye believed he had the scalp of the only spy hanging at his girdle; but he might be mistaken, so every precaution was taken to maintain an unbroken silence.

Ten of the friendly Indians, by Red-Eye's desire, had accompanied the expedition, and these he spread out on both flanks and ahead, so that if an enemy appeared they could give timely warning, and our fellows would be ready to fight.

On and on they marched, for many weary hours; then at last, when near daybreak, Red-Eye ordered a halt. The camp of the enemy was not far distant.

Leaving the scouts well spread out, the guide now went on by himself.

He would soon return, he told the officers.

"I dare say it is safe enough, O'Reilly," said Major Drake, "but precaution is part of a soldier's duty. We will keep our fellows well together, and post sentries. This may be an ambuscade, you know."

Daybreak was already spreading up in the east-by-south, when Red-Eye once more glided into the camp.

"No good news," he said. "Red man's camp-fires are cold. But I find the trail."

He now rolled himself in his blanket, and was soon fast asleep.

The wearied men, by Major Drake's advice, did the same, and the needful rest was taken that should prove of so much importance when they got, at last, hand to hand with the Indian foe.

Weary men sleep soundly, and three hours' slumber to a soldier on the war-path will make him as fresh and strong as ten hours taken in a stuffy room.

On again; on and on all that day, through woods and wilds, sometimes climbing wooded hills, in the sides of which many huge bears had their caves, and into which they retreated, growling and threatening, as our men walked past.

Great was the temptation to Drake and O'Reilly to try conclusions with some of the monsters. But the sound of a gun in these forests, where, as Red-Eye expressed it, the very trees have ears and tongues, might have given an alarm that would have rendered the expedition all in vain.

Red-Eye himself said but little. He was too busily engaged, sticking to the trail as a pointer follows the scent of game. This trail was at times so much in evidence that even a white man could make it out; at others difficult even for the red man himself to descry. Sometimes it was divided and subdivided, seeming to go in a hundred different directions, and it required the utmost skill then to discover which was the right one.

There were rivers to be forded, also deep morasses to be crossed, while at times a lake caused a long detour to be made.

Sometimes a strange Indian was met with, and was invariably made prisoner.

At nightfall a halt was again called, and rest and food taken.

But Red-Eye seemed to need neither rest nor food. He left his party once more, telling Major Drake he would return at moonrise.

How he could find his way through the dark of the forest, with nothing save the stars to guide him, it is impossible to say.

The men lay down by their arms. No one was inclined to talk. They were tired, and sleep alone could do them good.

It was midnight before Red-Eye once more glided into camp.

My grandfather, who had slept but for a very short time, was up and watching for him.

His report was this:

"I travel many, many miles. Then I come to big, big hill. This I climb and look far to the west. Ugh! I can see plenty camp-fires light the sky, and my heart rejoices. I go nearer and nearer. Then cat-music fall upon my ear, and I rejoice more."

"Cat-music, Red-Eye?"

"Cat-music—the wild music of your people."

"You mean the great Highland bagpipes."

"It is that. It is that. Your Tonal play to the chief, and they much rejoice."

"With God's help," said my grandfather, "we'll change their tune."

The whole camp was speedily astir now. According to Red-Eye, they would have only about seven miles to traverse, but, at the slow and creeping pace they needs must travel, it would take them about three hours at least to do the journey, for they would have to be as silent and cautious as panthers.

It was midnight when they started, and the moon shone bright in every clearing. But they still had to keep well into the darkling of the woods, for it was unlikely that a savage tribe of Indians like the Micmacs would squat around their tent-fires without posting sentries and scouts.

This made one of the chief difficulties in the way of effecting a rescue.

Another difficulty was even more formidable. So, at all events, it appeared to grandfather. It lay in the fact that, if the enemy's camp was not captured by very sudden surprise, the savages would, doubtless, spear poor Tonal, while they who had possession of little Mary would strangle her.

This last thought was a horror of horrors that made my grandfather almost delirious.

If anything happened to his child, he determined that he would never return. He would follow the savages alone. Without doubt, he would pay the penalty of such rashness with his life: but he would sell this dearly.

Without adventures of any sort, though often startled by the growling of some bear, or the mournful cry of the great brown owl, they crept stealthily on. After a time, however—and how very long that time had seemed to my poor grandfather it need scarcely be told—a sound of another sort fell on the listening ears of the Royal Scots. It was the wail of the bagpipe playing a coronach, or lament.

How solemn and sad it was, rising thus from the depths of the midnight forest!

It stopped suddenly; and once more the little army marched onwards.

They could not be far off now, so double caution must be exercised.

Red-Eye soon lifted his hand as a signal for the halt. Then he touched Major Drake and my grandfather on the shoulder, and beckoned to them to follow.

When about seventy yards off, Red-Eye lay down for a moment with one ear close to the ground.

This is the savages' telephone, and it is wonderful what sounds they can thus hear.

The very earth seems to talk to them, and confess its secrets.

He crept forward now on hands and knees, the others following his example.

Suddenly a glimmer of light could be seen rising high up on the pine-trees beyond, and next moment they were looking down over a rock into the camp of the red men.

If the Indians have more acute hearing than we pale-faces, they have also better eyesight. Neither Drake nor my grandfather could distinguish anything very well in the uncertain light of the camp-fires, that darted up through the rolling clouds of smoke, and struggled confusingly with the moonbeams.

There were but two tents in the camp, which was pitched low down in an open glade, near to a little lake or pool. Both were made of green pine-boughs. The larger, near to which lay poor Tonal, now bound hand and foot, no doubt belonged to the chief and his squaw. The other, it was equally certain, contained Mary and her attendant.

Red-Eye and his companions now drew back a little, and held a whispered conversation—a council of war.

My grandfather wished to make a sudden dash on the foe, but Red-Eye shook his head.

"No, no, no," he said: "Indian too quick—kill Tonal, kill child of my heart too."

Then he proposed his own plan.

He would creep snake-like towards the camp, cut the cords that bound poor Tonal, then dash straight to the smaller tent, and seize the child.

By this time the camp would be roused, and the soldiers must come to the rescue.

This plan was adopted, and away glided Red-Eye on his truly dangerous mission.

The men were brought as close to the camp of the enemy as safety would admit of, and my grandfather and Major Drake once more took up their position on the rock from which they could see the camp-fires.

For the present, all they could do was to wait and watch.

At no period of his life, my grandfather has told me, did he ever experience such terrible anxiety as that which he now felt.

How very, very long the time seemed!

At last his head sank on the moss. He could bear to look no longer.

What a blessing it is that God is near us wherever we go, and that we can always pray.

But hark!

There is the sound of a musket far down beneath.

Then a yell.

"Like the wild scream of the curlew,
From crag to crag the signal flew."

The whole camp down yonder is in motion, the savages are rushing hither and thither like a nest of hornets. The fires are being rapidly extinguished—this is the work of the squaws. But as yet no savage knows whence the danger will come. They are already armed, however, with bow and spear and musket.

See! see!

The retreating figure of an Indian can be distinguished by them, making his way eastwards, and bearing something in his arms.

Twang go the bows, muskets are discharged, but still he hurries on.

But now, high above the ear-splitting yells of the savage foe, rises the war-cry of our men, as they dash down to the charge with bayonets fixed.

That was an ugly fight while it lasted.

A battle bloody but brief.

Our fellows spared none, their bayonets doing the work until the savages broke and fled. Then volley after volley was fired, until all had disappeared in the depths of the forest.

Dr. McLeod had fought his way to the chief's tent, and near it he found Tonal, still bound, for Red-Eye had been discovered before he had had time to cut his bonds.

"God bless you! God bless you, Dr. Mac!" he cried, as the giant lifted him on his back as deftly as one might lift a child.

"But man! man! the pipes! I'll no go a single inch without my bagpipes."

Hastily Dr. McLeod picked up the bagpipes, then speedily rushed back in the direction Red-Eye had taken.

Little Mary was running to meet him. Safe and sound she was, but crying bitterly.

"Po' Led-Eye! O, po' Led-Eye! He is all blooded and dead."

Dr. McLeod now cut Tonal's cords, then hurried to the spot where the poor faithful fellow lay. It was evident that life was fast ebbing away, but the doctor did what he could to stanch the bleeding.

He administered a little brandy, and Red-Eye seemed to revive. It was but as the glimpse of sunshine that precedes the summer storm, and of this Red-Eye appeared to be fully aware.

When my grandfather and the others ran up after the savages had fled, they found Tonal supporting Red-Eye on his breast, and the child sitting near, quietly weeping. She rushed into her father's arms.

"But O, daddy," she entreated, "tan oo save po' Led-Eye, 'fore he dies, and does (goes) away to a dark hole?"

"He is sinking fast," said Dr. McLeod, as my grandfather knelt beside the dying man.

"I will take little Mary away."

"No, no, no," cried the child; "I sit by po' Led-Eye all the time." And down she sat.

Red-Eye tried to lift his hand towards Mary. She took the poor scarred hand that she had often nursed before, and the faithful fellow seemed more peaceful now.

"Lead me—through—the darkness," he murmured—"to the land of the Great White Spirit."

These were the last words he spoke. His own spirit fled.

Grandfather closed his eyes.

His bitterest thought at that moment was that he had ever doubted this poor Indian, who had given his life to save the child.

* * * * *

So sudden had been the attack upon the savages that few of our fellows were wounded—none dangerously—and no one was killed.

The nearest route was now taken towards the camp. So a litter of boughs was made, and the corpse of Red-Eye, covered with leaves, was borne along with them. They would not bury him at a place where there was the slightest chance of the savages desecrating his grave.

But when they got once more within sight of the Fort, and not far from the camp, a grave was dug, and the Indian hero laid to rest.

Accompanied by Tonal, every morning, as long as a wild flower was to be had, my wee mother visited the grave, to place on the green mound some little floral tribute to the memory of her never-to-be-forgotten playmate and friend.

But winter came at last, and covered all the land in robes of white. As severe a winter, probably, as ever had been experienced in Canada.

But British soldiers are capable of roughing it in any climate, and few, if any, fell victims to the terrible frost.

Winter wore away, and one day Mary, the daughter of the regiment, rushed to tell her mother that flowers were growing in the woods, and that once more Red-Eye's grave was green.

* * * * *

* * * * *

If I happened to come across a village school anywhere, during my summer rambles in my caravan, in which there were boys who had never heard of Quatre Bras, of Napoleon's return from the beautiful and romantic island of Elba, and of the memorable battle of Waterloo, I should borrow the teacher's tawse or cane, and lay it on unmercifully. Not on the boys—pray do not mistake me—but on the teacher himself, unless he happened to be a much bigger and more active man than myself, in which case I—I—well, discretion, you know, is the better part of valour!

It was a lasting sorrow with my dear grandfather that the transport in which he and the rest of his company recrossed the Atlantic did not get home in time to give them a chance of sharing in the glories of Waterloo. This was partly owing to stress of weather, but mostly to the fact that she got her fore-foot on a sand-bank, and there lay for a week. This one single week made all the difference 'twixt glory and the loss of it.

Peace was proclaimed at last, and a lasting peace it proved.

The Highland battalion was no more thought of, and shortly after the war was over, not only my grandfather, but his two friends, Tom Grahame and Tonal, left the army and returned to their own country. For many years they lived within easy hail of each other, and met together, to talk of old times and of the future, almost every night.

Tonal's bonnie black-eyed bairns, and "Tom Grahame's baby," as Annie continued to be called, were brought up at the same school, and although changes came and separation too, they were friends as long as they lived.

Both O'Reilly and Major Drake retired shortly before my grandfather left the Service, and brave, sturdy Dr. McLeod took up a practice in Glasgow. His name had been mentioned in many a despatch; that was all, for in those days there were no Victoria Crosses.

One day—how well I remember it, though but a child—a hale, hearty old man came to see my grandfather, at his cottage, and a right merry afternoon and evening they spent.

"They fought their battles o'er again,
And thrice they slew the slain."

* * * * * *

Napoleon Bonaparte was sent, as you all know, to spend the remainder of his days and chafe his life away on a sea-girt rock, called St. Helena.

It is really one of the most charming islands in the tropical ocean.

It is a long time now since his grave, down in a cool, green hollow, in a grove of trees, was vacated, for the French were permitted at last to take their dead hero home.

The house, a far from pretentious one, stood and stands on a bold, bare bluff, out-looking as blue a sea as anyone ever beheld. To the left, as you approach the house, far down beneath, is the green glen where the grave was dug; but behind you, if you turn your gaze, the scenery is well-wooded and mountainous.

Truly a lovely island, but this end of it is lonesome in the extreme, and surely in such a place as this, watched night and day by ships and soldiers, this eagle-hearted genius of war must have found his punishment almost greater than he could bear.

Before visiting the house, I went to the grave, and was permitted to cull some large pink flowers, which were afterwards stolen from my cabin on board H.M.S. Valorous.

The interior of the house itself, and its rooms, reminded me of hospital wards.

Hung up near to a bed was a placard, worded somewhat as follows:

"If these walls could speak, and tell the story of the great man's sufferings in this room, it would melt the hardest heart to tears."

And this, then, was the end of a life of cruelty and ambition.

Heigho!

"So sinks the pride of former days,
    When glory's thrill is o'er,
And hearts that then beat high with praise
    Now feel that pulse no more."

THE END