McGilveray had seen the fire-organ at the same moment as the General. "Get up the side," he said to the remaining soldier in his boat. The soldier began climbing, and McGilveray caught the oars and was instantly away towards the raft. The General, looking over the ship's side, understood his daring purpose. In the shadow, they saw him near it, they saw him throw a boat-hook and catch it, and then attach a rope; they saw him sit down, and, taking the oars, laboriously row up-stream toward the opposite shore, the fuse burning softly, somewhere among the great pipes of explosives. McGilveray knew that it might be impossible to reach the fuse—there was no time to spare, and he had set about to row the devilish machine out of range of the vessels which were carrying Wolfe's army to a forlorn hope.
For minutes those on board the man-o'-war watched and listened. Presently nothing could be seen, not even the small glimmer from the burning fuse.
Then, all at once, there was a terrible report, and the organ pipes belched their hellish music upon the sea. Within the circle of light that the explosion made, there was no sign of any ship; but, strangely tall in the red glare, stood McGilveray in his boat. An instant he stood so, then he fell, and presently darkness covered the scene. The furious music of death and war was over. There was silence on the ship for a time as all watched and waited. Presently an officer said to the General: "I'm afraid he's gone, sir."
"Send a boat to search," was the reply. "If he is dead"—the General took off his hat "we will, please God, bury him within the French citadel to-morrow."
But McGilveray was alive, and in half-an-hour he was brought aboard the flag-ship, safe and sober. The General praised him for his courage, and told him that the charge against him should be withdrawn.
"You've wiped all out, McGilveray," said Wolfe. "We see you are no traitor."
"Only a fool of a bandmaster who wanted wan toon more, yer Excillincy," said McGilveray.
"Beware drink, beware women," answered the General.
But advice of that sort is thrown away on such as McGilveray. The next evening after Quebec was taken, and McGilveray went in at the head of his men playing "The Men of Harlech," he met in the streets the woman that had nearly been the cause of his undoing. Indignation threw out his chest.
"It's you, thin," he said, and he tried to look scornfully at her.
"Have you keep your promise?" she said, hardly above her breath.
"What's that to you?" he asked, his eyes firing up. "I got drunk last night—afther I set your husband free—afther he tould me you was his wife. We're aven now, decaver! I saved him, and the divil give you joy of that salvation—and that husband, say I."
"Hoosban'—" she exclaimed, "who was my hoosban'?"
"The big grinning corporal," he answered.
"He is shot this morning," she said, her face darkening, "and, besides, he was—nevare—my hoosban'."
"He said he was," replied McGilveray, eagerly.
"He was awway a liar," she answered.
"He decaved you too, thin?" asked McGilveray, his face growing red.
She did not answer, but all at once a change came over her, the half- mocking smile left her lips, tears suddenly ran down her cheeks, and without a word she turned and hurried into a little alley, and was lost to view, leaving McGilveray amazed and confounded.
It was days before he found her again, and three things only that they said are of any moment here. "We'll lave the past behind us," he said- "an' the pit below for me, if I'm not a good husband t' ye!"
"You will not drink no more?" she asked, putting a hand on his shoulder.
"Not till the Frenchies take Quebec again," he answered.
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We'll lave the past behind us
The furious music of death and war was over