"Give way. I have important information for the colonel. Let me pass," gasped the sergeant, thrusting the man aside and pushing his way into the hut. A moment or two later he was confronting the wounded officer, and for some ten minutes the two were closeted together, much to the amazement of the soldier servant.
"There, there, Armand, you must leave us," said the colonel, as his valet rushed in after the sergeant with the intention of ejecting the intruder. "Our friend has news for me. Withdraw. Come again when I knock, and have no fear. Our friend is in his sober senses."
"I am glad that you have come to me, sergeant," he said, at the end of their interview. "Glad to think there are some here who have kind hearts still after all this bitter warfare. Not for worlds would I have this lad injured, for he behaved with noble generosity to me. Go now, summon your firing party, and march the squad to the hut where this prisoner lies. If any dare give you an order to proceed with this unjust and cruel execution, show this note. Though I am wounded and incapable at the moment, I am still nominally, if not actively, in command, and I will have my orders obeyed. Go, and I will follow presently."
Half an hour later Steve awoke to the fact that men were gathering outside the hut in which he lay. He could hear the tramp of their boots on the frozen ground, and the ring of their muskets as they stood at ease. The voice of the sergeant came to his ears as he gave the commands. "Attention! Shoulder your pieces! Stand steady there, lads, for Monsieur Jules Lapon comes to inspect you."
The door was thrown open, a gust of freezing air swept the apartment, and there was Jules, muffled in furs, his face haggard and weary as if he had some great weight on his mind which had kept him wakeful since the arrival of the prisoner, two bright, hectic spots on his cheeks and staring, blood-shot eyes which seemed to denote a fever. And despite the cruel smile now on his lips, it wanted no acute observer to see that this young man, with all his bravado, was hesitating as to his course of action, not out of compassion for the prisoner, but for fear of what might happen to himself. However, the sight of Steve's calm face settled the question.
"You are ready, sergeant?" he asked curtly. "Good. Then bring out the prisoner. There is a wall yonder, where you will set him up and shoot him promptly. He is a dog and a spy, and should thank us for giving him bullets instead of a noose."
"He will certainly not thank you for his life, monsieur. The lad is too proud and too brave for that. He would not ask it of me, and much less of you."
The words, spoken in the coldest and most cutting tones, caused Jules to swing round and face the open. He flushed to the roots of his hair, and then turned deathly pale, while, like the coward and bully he was, his lips at once commenced to frame lies and excuses. For his superior was there. Four soldiers stood before him, bearing a bed, on which, warmly covered with skins, lay the long figure of the colonel.
"Have you no heart, man?" demanded the colonel fiercely. "Do you not know that this prisoner was the leader of those men whom we attacked last week? Yes, you know that, I see. Then it is also in your knowledge that it is to that gallant youth that I owe my life. And yet you would shoot him! You are suspended, monsieur. You will retire to your hut till I can send you out of the fort. Sergeant, you will carry monsieur the prisoner to my hut, where he will remain till completely recovered. Tell off one of the men to wait on him."
The colonel fell back on his pillow, waved to his bearers, and was gone without deigning to glance again at Jules Lapon. Then the sergeant's voice was heard.
"Ground arms, my lads. Now pile them against the hut. Good. Enter now and fetch monsieur. You will carry out the colonel's orders."
In a minute Steve was being conveyed across the open, while Jules Lapon looked on as if dazed. Then he turned, rushed across to his own dwelling, and broke the door open with a furious kick. He was beaten. At the very last minute the life at which he had been aiming for so many months now, for some subtle reason of his own, was saved, and the prisoner, in place of standing up before the muskets of a firing party, was being quartered in the colonel's own hut. Jules ground his teeth with fury, and filled the bowl of his pipe with savage energy.
"You have to thank a very fine and robust constitution, and the open-air life which you have lived for your excellent progress, monsieur," said the French colonel one morning, some six weeks after Steve had been taken prisoner, as the two sat in front of a cozy log fire in the speaker's hut, "and I have to thank fortune—bad fortune for you, perhaps, monsieur—that some weeks of what would have been a weary time for me have passed so very pleasantly. It is the fortune of war, good for me, bad for you, and in either case to be taken philosophically."
"For myself, I admit that I am sorry to have been taken prisoner," replied Steve with a smile, "but then I might have been in the hands of Monsieur Jules, instead of in yours, colonel, and then——"
"Monsieur Steve would not have been here. You have not forgotten the firing party and the wall. Yes, that wretch would have had you shot, for he has some spite against you. Tell me, Monsieur Steve, have you ever done this compatriot of mine an injury, other than defeating him in the course of this war?"
Steve shook his head emphatically. "None," he said.
"Then there must be some other reason for his enmity. You speak French like a native, monsieur, while you are an English colonist born and bred. That is curious."
"My mother was French," explained Steve. "She was a Mademoiselle Despelle before her marriage. More than that I do not know, for she died when I was an infant, and my father has always been very reticent about such matters. It is to him that I owe my knowledge of French, for he speaks the language like a native."
"And your name is Mainwaring. Monsieur Steve Mainwaring. Yes, there must be some other reason for this Jules to have such spite against you, and I shall endeavour to unravel the cause. Meanwhile, monsieur, allow me to warn you most solemnly. For the moment this man is at Crown Point, and therefore harmless; nor will he have a post of authority again while I am able to prevent it. Still, beware of him, monsieur. He is dangerous. And now to give you some information. In a month perhaps the ice will have broken. Even now there are signs that the end of this terrible winter is coming, and as soon as the spring puts in an appearance you and I will go to Quebec, where I can promise a welcome. For I do not forget that I owe my life to you. Monsieur will be a prisoner on parole till the end of the war, while I—well, I am a lame dog, and of little further use, I fear, and besides, I have given my word to you—I am on oath not to fight again during the course of this conflict."
The tall colonel looked down woefully at his thigh, still heavily bandaged, and then glanced at the crutch which lay beside his chair, and which up till then he had never dared to use. Then he sighed, brushed a tear away, and smiled.
"I spoke of accepting fortune good or bad philosophically," he said. "Bien! I will act up to my words, but my fighting days are done."
It was only too true, and none but those who have seen the keen soldier struck down in his prime can realise what this gallant colonel must have felt. For his prospects were brilliant; he was in command of one of the most important advanced posts, and had everything before him. Then a chance ball had fractured his thigh, and here he was, one leg some two inches shorter than the other, lamed for life, and unfitted for further service. But he did not permit his disappointment to take the place of his gratitude to the young man who had befriended him, who had discovered him deserted in the forest and restored him to his friends, and to this colonel alone Steve owed his comfort during the last few weeks. For his wound had proved to be a severe one, and was followed by some amount of fever. However, he was practically recovered now, and for quite a time had constituted himself nurse to the colonel. As to his friends, Jim and Pete and the others, he had been able to send them a few brief lines, telling them of his safety, and promptly a note had come back, scrawled on a dirty piece of paper, and conspicuous for its brevity.
"You ain't dead yet, cap'n, and whilst there's life there's hope. Look out fer a rescue."
That was all. There was a blurred letter at the end which might have been Jim's signature, or Pete's, or even Mac's. But the words were clear enough, and somehow they gave Steve much comfort.
"I am sure they will do something for me," he said, when he had read the note, "but rescue here is hopeless, for there are too many Indians. Then, when I reach Quebec I shall be still further away, so that there is little hope of seeing them there. On the way up though——"
He considered the matter for a few seconds, for he had learned from the colonel already that when he was removed from Ticonderoga it would be by water.
"No, I will send them no information of the move," he said. "It would not be fair to do so, and besides, I shall be travelling with a man who is unfit to fight. No, I fear that they will be able to do nothing for me, and I shall have to rely on myself alone."
With that Steve had to banish all thought of help from his friends, and resigned himself to a long imprisonment in Quebec. A few weeks later the frosts broke up, the sun melted the ice, and ere long the green of a gorgeous country began to be seen again.
"We will make for the headquarters of our Government," said the colonel, now promoted to a chair outside the hut, where he could bask in the spring sunshine and listen to the twitter of the birds. "Anything will be better than to remain here, unable to stir a foot, while others are active and busy. For you, Steve, I fear it means removal from friends. But then it is inevitable."
Ten days later Steve and the colonel were carried by road to Crown Point, at the foot of Lake Champlain, and from there were conveyed by canoe to the reaches of the Richelieu river. An escort of Indians paddled beside them, and swept their own craft along at a pace which very soon brought them to the mighty St. Lawrence. They turned into the river, and in due course sighted the promontory on which the city of Quebec is built, then a small and straggling place made up of private residences and churches, and of numerous batteries, barracks, and forts. As Steve's eyes rested on what is now, and was even then, a queen of cities, bathed in the spring sunshine, he realized what Wolfe and many another was to realize after him, namely, that this was no trading place, a mart given over to business men and the trade of the country. It was a stronghold devoted to the military and to the church, for the predominant features were barracks and batteries, spires and belfries, all clinging like flies to the steep cliff.
"A jewel than which there is none more beautiful in the crown of France," said the colonel, as he pointed out the various places to Steve. "Quebec is the most regal-looking city I have ever seen, and I never know whether she looks best as we see her now, with the spring sunshine smiling on her, or in the winter, when she is clad in her mantle of white. Monsieur, this struggle between our two nations may end in victory for England, but whatever happens, this jewel I am showing you will never fall. Quebec is impregnable. Look east and west and you will see why I am so confident."
It seemed indeed as if no other opinion could have been given, for as Steve approached this fair Canadian city he, too, declared to himself that nothing but starvation could cause it to surrender. For Quebec stands on a steep promontory, as has been described, and has to its immediate east the river St. Charles, and beyond that again a long ridge continuing for some six miles and ending abruptly in the beautiful falls of Montmorency, at that time of the year in their full grandeur, for the melted snow and ice had added to the volume of the river. This ridge, which was the southern extremity of an upland plateau, fell sheer into the river, and a glance at it was sufficient to discover the obstacles which would at once confront any foe bold or rash enough to attempt to clamber to the top. Standing on that same ridge on many a day after, Steve looked down upon the garden of Canada, the Isle of Orleans, which the first navigator of the mighty St. Lawrence had called the Island of Bacchus.
To the west Quebec is even more strongly protected by natural obstacles, for the ridge on the edge of which the fair city is built runs westward for many miles, falling almost perpendicularly into the river, while the St. Lawrence, just opposite the town, is suddenly constricted by a projecting spit of land, known as Point Lévis, which narrows the bed till it is barely three-fourths of a mile across, a distance which the French rightly considered could be commanded by their batteries.
"This will be your prison, Steve," said the colonel, kindly, as the canoes made in for the wooden stage, "and I think that you could come to no more charming spot. I shall take you to see Montcalm, our military leader, and shall advise you to give him your promise not to attempt an escape. No. Do not refuse, I beg of you," he went on, seeing Steve pull a long face. "After all, you can but try it for a time, and can then formally declare your intention not to remain on parole any longer. It will make all the difference to you just now, for if you give your word, you will be allowed much liberty, and you will be therefore out in the open. On the other hand, you will be placed in confinement, which will be irksome, to say the least of it, and not the best thing for your health. Then, too, consider the circumstances. Miles and miles of forest now lie between you and your friends, and there is not the smallest chance of your getting down to them, or they up to you, for the country swarms with our backwoodsmen and Indians. Such an attempt would be sheer madness. You must wait, my lad, and, later, if your friends beat us back, perhaps it will be worth your while to withdraw your parole and make that attempt of which all prisoners dream. There, I am honest with you, am I not? If matters were in my hands I should aid you to escape."
He laughed heartily, patted Steve on the back, and then held out his hand for our hero to help him ashore. For Steve had become indispensable to the wounded colonel, and was more like his son than anything else.
"I suppose you are right, colonel," said the lad some little while later, when they were ascending the steep hill. "I will give my parole and try the arrangement for a time."
A little later they were ushered into the presence of Montcalm, a soldier whose memory is still kept green, and who, though an enemy of ours, was undoubtedly one of the bravest and most honourable of foes Englishmen have ever met. He shook hands gaily with Steve, asked after his wound, and gripped his hand again when the colonel had told him how this prisoner had saved his life.
"Monsieur," said Montcalm, swinging round and regarding Steve with shining eyes, "such an act of generosity should earn for you your freedom. But I dare not give it, and I must ask you to reconcile yourself to captivity here. You will give me your word?"
"I will, general. For the present and until further notice I promise not to attempt an escape, and to obey any orders as to my behaviour which you may choose to give."
"Good! Ha, ha, monsieur le colonel. You hear him? You hear this young officer? Bien! He promises not to escape till he warns us. Truly, you English are droll! But I understand, monsieur, and I know how honourably you will keep your promise. Now for quarters. You will be posted with the colonel, at his express wish, and will be allowed the same rations as our captains. As for pay, perhaps monsieur le colonel will permit you to draw on him, and afterwards you can refund. I hope you will find the time pass pleasantly. There are many here to entertain you."
That indeed proved to be the case, for Quebec in those days was filled with young officers, and with a sprinkling of wealthy men. Balls and routs were of frequent occurrence, and for a time Steve was a lion at these entertainments, thanks again to the honesty of the colonel, who had told his tale everywhere.
"We hear, monsieur, that our beloved colonel owes his life to you," said one of the numerous ladies then resident in the city. "Tell us your story of this venture."
Steve bowed in courtly manner, a trick which he had learned since his arrival, flushed to his hair, and looked embarassed.
"Madame must know, surely," he answered, desperately. "I saw the colonel speaking with her a little while ago, and she is good enough now to admit that she has heard this tale."
"True, monsieur. But it is your version that I require," was the laughing answer. "Come, monsieur, I will not permit you to disappoint me."
Thus pressed, Steve shuffled uneasily, admitted that there might be truth in the colonel's tale, and then blurted out his own explanation, as if he had need to make an excuse for performing what had been a very generous action.
"You see, madame, I was there," he said. "I chanced upon the colonel, and could I leave him to die? I brought him in, and since we did not desire to be troubled with a wounded man, why—well, we took him to his friends."
There was laughter at that, for some half-dozen other people had gathered, amongst them the colonel, who leaned on his crutch.
"You hear that, monsieur le colonel?" called madame, with a laugh, catching sight of the wounded officer. "I thought I should like to hear what this prisoner of yours had to say as to your rescue. You should listen to him. Ladies and gentlemen, I declare that these English are naive. Monsieur tells me that having chanced upon our wounded friend he brought him back to his friends for one reason only. Guess at it, if you please. No. You cannot, mon colonel. Very well, monsieur has the effrontery to say that he feared you would be a great trouble to them. He would not be bothered with so useless a person as our colonel."
There was loud laughter at that, laughter which sent Steve flying from the group, his cheeks aglow, while the gallant and merry colonel who had so befriended him stood leaning on the back of a chair, shaking his crutch after him.
"Ah! Let me catch the rogue," he called out, and then, "Madame. It is like the lad. Honest as the day. He says what he means whenever possible, and at other times keeps silent lest he should give offence. Despite what he says, I know him to be a brave and a generous lad."
Many and many a time in the months which followed did Steve take rod and line and cross to the river St. Charles. He was even given the use of a gun and a canoe, and permitted to go on the St. Lawrence, or even into the forest on the southern bank. But he was always careful to return before dusk, and made a point of reporting his arrival. And while he was a prisoner only in name, and the weeks grew into months, the reader may wonder what had been happening in other and more familiar quarters, for the war with France was now more than ever a fact, and the two nations were preparing for the struggle which both knew well must end in victory for one, and the consequent mastery of this huge continent.
Steve had gone to Fort William Henry in the winter of 1756, and the spring of 1757 found him in Quebec. It will be remembered that he had taken part in more than one of les petites guerres at the foot of Lake St. George. These conflicts had been of frequent occurrence, and throughout the winter they continued, Jim and his friends, as well as those in Fort William Henry, often sending out small parties to attack the French. The winter months passed, in fact, without other incident, save for one attempt made by the garrison of Ticonderoga. On March 18, 1757, they descended over the ice of Lake St. George, hoping to take the garrison of Fort William Henry by surprise. They were easily driven back, and retired to their own fort, having accomplished nothing. Elsewhere nothing of moment occurred, so that this long winter season may be described as being barren of incident.
Meanwhile the British Government had determined to support the colonial troops, and regiments had been collecting at Cork, in Ireland, preparatory to sailing for America. On the eighth of May some hundred sail set out with these reinforcements, and finally arrived at Halifax, in Nova Scotia, which the Earl of Loudon, now in command of our forces in America, had recently reached with his troops. Of these he had now under his immediate command some eleven thousand, and with them he hoped to be able to attack and capture the very formidable fortress of Louisbourg, which, it will be remembered, had been erected at great cost on Cape Breton Isle, just north of Nova Scotia. But information now came to hand that there were seven thousand Frenchmen in Louisbourg, two-thirds being regulars, while Indians swarmed in the vicinity. This formidable force, added to a French fleet of no mean proportions, was considered too powerful for the troops under Loudon's command, and in consequence the idea of an attack on Louisbourg was given up, and on August 16 Loudon embarked with the bulk of his troops, leaving the 27th, the 28th, the 43rd, and the 46th regiments as a garrison for Nova Scotia.
Valuable months had been wasted, and the projected descent on the formidable French fortress had ended in fiasco. But Loudon cannot be blamed alone for such a result. If reinforcements had been collected earlier and despatched without delay, they would have reached Cape Breton Isle before the French fleet put in an appearance. It was this delay, together with the prompt crossing of the Atlantic by the French fleet, which caused the expedition to be countermanded. But we lost far more than valuable time and money in this useless movement. By withdrawing his troops from America proper to Halifax, Loudon left the disputed country south of the great lakes and west of the line drawn north from the Alleghany mountains almost denuded of men. There were some three to four thousand to hold this huge country, a force insufficient even to keep back the French in the neighbourhood of Lake St. George, if they wished to press south in that direction.
It may readily be seen that Loudon was guilty of a serious error in thus denuding an important stretch of country, and it may equally be anticipated that the French were quick to take advantage of the withdrawal of our soldiers. Montcalm had been busily gathering Indians from far-off portions of Canada, Indians attracted to the French after their victory at Oswego. These, with numerous regulars and Canadians, he poured down the Richelieu river, massing them at Ticonderoga, till he had nearly 8000 there. Some forty different Indian tribes were represented, and if the native element had been cruel and bloodthirsty before, it promised to be even more so now. For these sons of Canada who crowded the huts at Ticonderoga were pure savages, vastly impressed by the French, and more than ever eager to join in this fray now that they had heard the tales of their brethren who had been already engaged.
On the British side General Webb, who had been left in command in this area, had some 1600 troops in Fort Edward, while Munroe had two thousand five hundred in Fort William Henry, or encamped in its immediate neighbourhood. This latter force was surrounded by the huge numbers at the disposal of Montcalm, and prepared to defend itself as well as possible. The French had forty guns, and made no active attempt upon the place till these were in position. Then, at a range of two hundred yards, they opened such a fire that the fortifications were splintered and flying in fragments before many hours had passed. Munroe and his men made a gallant defence, but their ammunition soon began to run out, while some of their cannon burst. They attempted two sorties, which were repulsed, and waited in vain for some action on the part of Webb and his men at Fort Edward. But no one came to help them, and finally, when some hundred and fifty of the defenders had fallen, Munroe agreed to surrender, further resistance being useless. Terms were arranged, the garrison to march out with the honours of war, and to proceed under escort to Fort Edward, there to remain till they should be exchanged.
What followed will for ever be a stain on the annals of New France and a warning to all who employ the help of such ruffians as the Indians had already proved themselves to be. The numerous braves with Montcalm, accustomed to murder all their prisoners, seemed to think that these men who had surrendered were theirs, with whom they thought they could do as they wished. They were already nearly out of hand, and as an earnest of what was coming, the miscreants promptly slaughtered a dozen or more unfortunate fellows who from illness or wounds had been left in the hospital. On the following morning the British troops were to set out under escort, and seventeen more unfortunate and helpless men were slaughtered by the Indians in the sight of Canadian officers, who did not even venture to remonstrate. Indeed, the Canadians engaged in this war looked upon the methods and desires of the Indians with favour. They considered that the scalps of the enemy were the natural reward for the services of these miscreants, and there is not a shadow of doubt that at the surrender of Fort William Henry they were, with few exceptions, if not actively sympathetic with the Indians, at least callous onlookers at a tragedy to which energy on their part could have put a summary end. Be that as it may, the march had no sooner begun than the Indians got completely out of hand. Montcalm, in place of drawing a cordon of his regulars around the prisoners, endeavoured to arrest the excitement by his own unaided efforts. Almost at once the war-whoop sounded, and in a few seconds the howling demons were busy amongst the prisoners, tomahawking them, or dragging them into the forest to slaughter at their leisure when opportunity offered. It was a horrible exhibition of cruelty and inhumanity, and it is a wonder that, seeing the helpless methods adopted, Montcalm and his officers contrived to save a single one of the unfortunates who had surrendered to them. Perhaps a hundred were slain, and some six hundred carried off, of whom about half were returned on heavy payment. The remainder were taken away by the Indians on the following day, and who knows what happened to them? Suffice it to say that this disgraceful and cruel affair shocked all who heard of it, and raised such a storm of feeling in the breasts of all who boasted British blood, that "Remember Fort William Henry" became the cry of our soldiers in the future, and when the opportunity came they remembered. The trigger finger which in days before might have been steadied and withdrawn pressed sternly and without mercy in the future. The Canadian who begged for his life, had to beg most earnestly before he was sure that his captor would be merciful. For bitterness had entered into this war, and the British were face to face now with the fact that it was one of life and death, one which aimed at their very existence in America.
Another summer had gone and still the war was not ended, while the French may be said to have been victorious all along the line. They held the Ohio valley securely, their Indians and trappers still ranged the forests along the Alleghany border, while their troops occupied Ticonderoga, whither they had retired after the capture and destruction of Fort William Henry. In other quarters also they predominated, for Louisbourg constantly threatened Nova Scotia, while the island of Cape Breton on which it was erected, offered immediately in the neighbourhood of the huge fort a most excellent harbour to a French fleet which was ever ready to descend upon our American ports.
England wanted fresh troops, new and more enlightened leaders, and a far more energetic policy if she was ever to raise her head from the mire and despondency into which she had fallen. She wanted one paramount general at home, to rouse the people in England from their lethargy, to stimulate their zeal in the cause of the American colonists, and to reinforce our men already in the field not by driblets, but by a big army capable of coping with the difficulties which stared us in the face. That able leader appeared early in the year 1758, when Steve had been almost twelve months a prisoner. The great Pitt came into power, and the nation at once felt the change which he exerted. There was enthusiasm now, where there had been apathy before, and men spoke of the end of this campaign with confidence, forgetting that but a few months gone by the utter loss of America had been prophesied. New energies were concentrated in the conflict, money was voted with a freer hand, and the best that England and her American colony could give in brains and generalship was sought for.
Ticonderoga was to be attacked, and Abercromby was to command, for it was urgently necessary that this route to Canada should be opened and the defeat at Fort William Henry wiped out. Then Fort Duquesne, for some time a stinging thorn in our side, was selected for an expedition which Brigadier Forbes was to lead to glory. Amherst was selected for the most important of the expeditions, that to Louisbourg, in which operation the fleet was to help also. With Amherst Lawrence and Whitmore were to act as Brigadiers, while James Wolfe was selected in the same capacity. At home preparations were made to capture or destroy the provision fleets preparing to sail from France to Canada, and Hawke and Osborn did excellent service in this respect.
In fact, thanks to Pitt's energy, England showed her teeth during this spring of 1758, and took up the struggle in a manner which thoroughly alarmed Montcalm and his forces. There was less gaiety now at Quebec, for matters wore a serious aspect. Preparations were even made to resist an attack by the British, while all prisoners, of whom there were many, who had hitherto enjoyed considerable liberty, were confined to the fort and placed under a guard.
"I offer you many apologies on behalf of the commandant, monsieur," said the officer who brought the orders to Steve. "But you will understand. There are certain necessary preparations. Work is going on in the batteries which you must not see. You will remain in this fort, and will leave it at the risk of your life. Also, you will confine yourself to the front face of the fort, and will not venture to walk along the other walls. I wish to warn you formally that the sentries are under orders to fire the instant they detect an attempt at escape. Pardon, monsieur. It is unpleasant to have to speak so to such a friend as you are."
Steve bowed, and thanked the officer, saying that he fully understood the necessity for the order.
Two months later, when the spring weather had fully set in and the river was entirely free of ice, an Indian entered the courtyard of the fort in which Steve was located. There were always numbers of braves hovering about the batteries and barracks, and the presence of this one was therefore not remarkable. Steve had not even seen him, for he was leaning on the wall staring out at the green woods on the Isle of Orleans. Suddenly the tinkle of some metal instrument attracted his notice, and he swung round to catch sight of the Indian trudging past him, and of a tomahawk which had fallen on to the stone paving of the courtyard.
"Stop," he called out in the Mohawk tongue. "Stop, brother, you have dropped your tomahawk."
Picking it up Steve followed the Indian and handed the weapon to him. Then only did he look into his face. It was Silver Fox, painted and daubed as a Huron Indian, cool and absolutely unruffled as of yore.
"Greeting, chief. Silver Fox delights to look into the eyes of the Hawk. Read this, and be ready to-night. I have spoken."
He took his tomahawk, grunted his thanks, and passed on, leaving a tiny note in Steve's hand.
"My lad, my dear, dear lad," ran the note, which our hero carefully opened when out of sight of the sentry, "we have tracked you to the fort at Quebec, and have completed our arrangements for a rescue. Be ready to-night. Listen for a voice beneath the front wall where you are accustomed to walk. Your father."
A rescue! That very night, too! Steve thrust the note into his pocket and straightway commenced to whistle merrily, for he was tired of this captivity, and longed to be free again, fighting and hunting with his friends in the forest.
Steve was filled with delight at the idea of rescue. A thousand thoughts flashed through his mind, a thousand memories of the old days, which seemed now so very long ago, for despite the easy terms of his imprisonment, the time had dragged heavily.
"To-night! To-night!" he said over and over again to himself as he paced backwards and forwards. "And father is there. Where can he have been, and how comes it that Silver Fox has managed to get into Quebec? He seems to know the place, too, and is in no hurry to depart."
He had purposely walked in the opposite direction to that taken by the chief, but now he watched him out of the corner of his eye. Silver Fox was dawdling idly in the courtyard, as many another Indian had done on that and on previous days. He strolled along the wall, looked out at the magnificent prospect spread out before him, at the rolling waters of this, one of the mightiest of rivers, at the green slopes of the Isle of Orleans, and at the blue and green vista beyond, the forest-clad southern bank which stretched right away across the much-debated frontier to America, the colony filled with the hardy sons of Old England, and with fugitives from many parts of the world. Silver Fox halted for quite a little while and filled his pipe meditatively, striking flint and steel with great deliberation, and puffing languidly as if he had nothing in the world to occupy him, nothing to fear, and only desired to remain there and think and watch the lovely country below. For half an hour at least he leaned against the granite parapet, and then Steve saw him walk softly along some dozen paces, turn his head to the place where the sentry was placed, and then deliberately point below.
"A signal undoubtedly," thought Steve. He dropped his hand to show that he was watching, and then turned away again, while the Indian chief daubed in the colours of the Hurons struck flint and steel again as if his tobacco had not been lit sufficiently, and then sauntered calmly from the courtyard. Half an hour later our hero ventured to the same spot and carelessly looked over. Down below, some thirty feet perhaps, was a narrow path running between the wall of the fort and another wall which hemmed in the courtyard of a private residence.
"That is where I am to expect them," he thought. "Well, it is a good place, for the path is little used, and at night time it is densely dark. Now how am I to get here without upsetting the sentries?"
He thought for a little while, and then suddenly walked across the courtyard, clambered up the flight of steps which led to the room which had been allotted to him as his quarters, and promptly took off some of his clothing. A minute later he had thrown himself on his couch, where he lay half on his face, feigning illness. An hour or more later there was a step outside, and the guard, whose duty it was to make a round of the rooms occasionally, looked in at the door.
"Ha! Monsieur sleeps," he said gently, for he was a good fellow, and Steve had always been pleasant with him. "Monsieur is tired. I will be careful not to wake him."
He tip-toed away down the passage, and would soon have been out of hearing had Steve remained silent. But that was the last thing he wished to do. He desired to attract the attention of the man, and promptly gave a groan as if he were in agony.
"Did I hear correctly? Was it monsieur who groaned?"
The guard stopped abruptly, and brought the stock of his ponderous musket with a clatter to the ground, the jar being instantly followed by a second groan.
"Surely, it must be monsieur. What ails you, if you please, Monsieur Steve?" he asked, coming back to the room. "You are ill and in pain. What is the matter?"
Steve was not the one to sham as a rule, but he knew that he could not very well remain in the courtyard that night unless he had some plausible reason. He was not ill. In fact, he had never felt better or more energetic in his life. But he was 'cute, as Hunting Jim had already observed, and he was determined to manufacture some complaint.
"It is nothing," he answered, letting another feeble groan escape him. "I do not feel very comfortable. I have pain here. Perhaps monsieur would speak to my servant and ask him to bring me something warm to drink."
Steve placed his hand over his stomach and rolled on to his face again, for he was fearful that his healthy colour would betray him. The guard trailed his musket promptly, and went off at a run, bellowing for the soldier who had been detailed to wait on the prisoner.
"Quick," he cried, accosting the servant in the courtyard, "Monsieur is ill. I discovered him lying on his couch, groaning horribly. He desires something warm to drink. Run to the kitchen and see if you can obtain some milk."
A little later Steve was sitting up and sipping the warm milk, while his servant looked on sympathetically.
"Pardon, monsieur," he said, "but the pain will be better shortly. Monsieur looks well, and I am sure that this is only a little matter; for think, monsieur was in the courtyard two hours ago and I heard him whistling as if he had not a care in all the world, and as if he were with his own friends again."
Steve winced at the words, knowing that they were only too true. But a man who wishes to escape must act the part he has selected to the utmost of his ability, and he did so promptly.
"You are right, Jean," he said. "It is only a little thing. Some food has upset me. In a little while I shall be better. You are a good fellow to come so quickly. Now leave me, for I think I can sleep, and perhaps later the sentries will allow me to have some exercise."
"Truly, monsieur. They are asking kindly after you already, for monsieur is a favourite. I will go to them, and you will walk when you feel inclined."
He went out of the room, closed the door, and slipped silently down the passage.
"He is better," he cried gaily as he came to the guard-house. "Monsieur makes light of his pains. Another would be groaning and groaning, till one would imagine he was on the point of death. But our prisoner sips his milk and asks to sleep, so that he may trouble no one. Ah, yes, and he wishes to know if he may walk in the courtyard later, just to exercise, you understand."
"Certainly," came the answer. "Let monsieur walk if he wishes, though one would have thought that it would have been better were he to keep his bed till to-morrow. But there, these English are strange. They walk and walk, just for exercise as they say. Surely a man is better and lives longer when he rests, and rests often."
Steve did not long remain on his couch. In a little while he was seated at the table with which he had been provided, and was engaged in writing. To the commandant he scribbled a few lines thanking him for his constant courtesy and kindness, and stating deliberately that he was tired of being a prisoner, and intended to escape if possible. Then he wrote a short note for his servant, enclosing a handsome amount of money and many thanks for his attention. Also he gave him instructions to make his adieus to a number of friends in the garrison.
"Now I am ready," he thought. "It is dark now, and must be about seven o'clock. I shall wait till ten, and then go out. If they are suspicious I will return and then creep out again."
He threw himself on his bed and dozed for a long while, till a step outside roused him. He sat up then to find Jean standing over his couch.
"Monsieur is better?" he asked. "Then he will sleep, and to-morrow I will come later than usual to rouse him. Monsieur has no pain?"
"Pain! You are a wonderful physician," answered Steve heartily. "I declare that I never felt better in all my life. What is the night like, Jean?"
"Fine, monsieur, but somewhat dark. It is also crisp, and cold for this time of the year."
"Then it is just the night to brace me up. I shall have a stroll, Jean, and then turn in. Yes, wake me late to-morrow, and, by the way, I am hungry."
Jean was delighted with his master, and promptly produced food.
"You are a strange person, monsieur," he said with a grin of satisfaction. "You are ill and in great pain at one moment, and then, behold! after a little sleep you are well again and wish to eat and to walk."
"You forget. There was the warm milk, and Jean gave it to me," smiled Steve. "But I am hard. I have roughed it in the forests ever since I was a little fellow, and have had very little illness."
He sat down at the table and ate a hearty meal. Then he lit his pipe and strolled into the courtyard, passing a few words with the sentries.
"He is a fine young fellow, this monsieur," said one, to his comrade, when Steve had passed on. "If all are like him we shall have but a poor chance. Jacques, can you tell me why it is that our prisoner has never attempted an escape?"
"Perhaps he is afraid, comrade. Men have been shot for that in the last few months."
"Afraid! Not he!" came the answer. "It is this way, Jacques. Monsieur is a man of honour, though he is only a youngster. He has been on parole up till lately, and that is why he has made no attempt. As to why he does not go now, well, I will give you the reason. He is no fool, comrade. Understand that. He is no fool, I say, for he knows that the sentries here are old soldiers and keep a good watch. Besides, could a cat escape from this place, and if it did, where is it to go? Nowhere! Unless a prisoner is tired of life and throws himself into the river. That would be better than to be butchered by the red villains whom we have hanging about the place. Tobacco, Jacques? Help yourself, but be gentle, please, for I have but my slender pay and allowances, and a smoke is a luxury."
They stood together chatting for a while, and then separated to patrol the courtyard, passing Steve on each occasion and noticing that he was walking up and down rapidly, as was often his custom.
"Vraiment! These English make me smile," laughed one of the men, as he met his comrade opposite the guard-house. "One would think that monsieur earned his rations by walking this place. Now, if I were he——"
"You would draw the rations first and sleep, leaving another to do the walking," was the laughing answer. "Peste take these English. It is because they are so energetic that they still keep up their opposition. Others would have given in long ago after suffering so many defeats."
They stood together chatting for a time, their talk turning upon the surrender of Fort William Henry and the massacre which followed. Then they shook their heads and agreed that such a catastrophe would have ruined their own cause, while, strangely enough, it had made the enemy even more determined.
And while they chatted Steve gradually approached the wall, and finally halted at the spot where Silver Fox had given his signal. It was absolutely dark down below, and though he peered into the black shadows, even his trained eyes failed to see any object. He was in the act of withdrawing his head when there was a movement below, and the faint bark of a dog. Then someone whispered.
"Steve? Is that you, lad? Then catch this tackle."
Something swished in the air, a bright object shot up from the black abyss, and the prisoner gripped an iron hook, to which a stout rope was attached. To place the hook in position was the work of a second, and within a minute he was down at the bottom of the wall, with his hand gripped firmly in that of his father.
"Come. They will discover that you are gone in a very few seconds perhaps, and then there will be a noise. Ah! The sentries are calling."
Steve clutched at his father's sleeve, and allowed himself to be led away through the darkness. They ran along the narrow path, darted out into one of the roads which ascend the cliff, and soon afterwards were making their way along another path.
"They're at it! Listen to 'em shoutin'."
Steve suddenly heard a well-remembered voice speaking a foot or two behind him, and with a gasp of surprise realised that Hunting Jim was one of the party. But he had no time to greet him, and, indeed, little opportunity of doing so, for Judge Mainwaring hurried him on at a rapid pace, shouts from the fort having plainly shown them that the escape was already discovered. In fact, the sentries who had been so eagerly discussing the English nation and their idiotic absurdities, as they were pleased to call several of their customs, were smart fellows, in spite of all their chatter. Steve had been gone less than a minute when one of the men became suspicious.
"Ma foi, but I believe this monsieur has given us the slip already," he suddenly exclaimed. "I cannot see him. Jacques, get along and report if he is there."
The last-named ran along the courtyard, and presently his voice was heard. "He is nowhere to be seen," he cried. "Had we not better fire so as to give the alarm?"
"Fire! And so wake the whole garrison! Not for worlds. Get across to monsieur's quarters, and report if he is there. It is possible that he entered while our backs were turned."
It was not long ere the sentry returned with the news that Steve's room was empty, and then, indeed, the alarm was sounded. The sentries shouted to the sergeant of the guard, and the sergeant, having promptly turned his guard out and interrogated the sentries, roused the officer in command of the fort. A cannon was then fired, a signal agreed upon beforehand to mean that a prisoner had escaped, and very soon the garrison was acquainted of the fact.
"Now to the left," whispered Steve's father when they had run the better part of a mile and were on the outskirts of the city. "That is excellent. We are now on the plains of Abraham, and in a little while should be in safety."
Breaking into a fast walk, the fugitives kept straight ahead for another mile, till they came to a dip in the ground. There was the reflection of a fire hanging over the dip, and presently Steve caught sight of a native wigwam of large proportions. His father gave a cry of delight, and in a few seconds they were all inside. A smothered greeting welcomed them, and at once Steve was gripping the many hands held out to him, for there were now seven persons crowded into the wigwam, and a lantern which hung to one of the roof poles shone on their painted faces, and enabled the rescued prisoner to see them. Not that he easily recognised these friends, for they were all heavily daubed with paint and decked out in all the feathers and finery of the Huron Indians. However, he was sure of his father, the huge, raw-boned chief who stood beside him, holding him affectionately by the shoulder, for the voice betrayed him at once. But for that, Steve would have passed him by without recognition, for the Judge had shaved his beard, and now presented a smooth face, than which there was none more noticeable for the power and reserve which it expressed.
"You ain't forgot me, Cap'n, I hope," burst in one of the men, painted hideously to represent a fox. "You ain't quite forgot Pete, as took up quarters with yer 'way back thar down by Lake St. George."
"Nor me, if ye plaze, Masther Steve, Cap'n, beggin' yer honour's pardon," said someone else, pushing to the front and holding out a huge paw, which was painted now, but which at other times was freckled and tanned to a colour that matched that of an Indian. It was Mac, a grin stretching from ear to ear, clean shaven, and with his brilliant locks cut back to form the conventional scalp lock of the Hurons, and dyed; yes, Mac boasted hair of the blackest jet now, and but for his speech, his huge grin, and his squat, powerful figure, was quite unrecognisable.
"You've took the Cap'n aback," cried Jim, pushing Mac aside. "It ain't likely as he'd recognise an old pal in a beauty sich as you air. Why, Mac, you was never so good-lookin' in all yer life before, and ef you'll take a bit of advice from me, why, you'll stick where yer air. Jest take to bein' a brave for the rest of yer natural existence."
That brought a still wider grin to the broad face before Steve, a grin which seemed to sever it into two complete portions, and which showed a most excellent set of teeth.
"Bad scran to ye now, Huntin' Jim, ef I don't take ye by the neck this instant and scalp ye. 'Tis yerself that's uncommon handsome to-day. Stand up and let the Cap'n see ye."
He retired into the background, and gave Steve an opportunity of setting eyes on the tall trapper who had been such a staunch friend. He, too, was decked as an Indian, and in his case the disguise was perhaps even more natural than in that of the others. For Jim was tall and wiry. He was trained by constant wanderings in the forest to the very last ounce, and his muscles, though small and not of Mac's proportions, stood out like whipcord. Then, too, his sharp and intelligent features helped in the deception, while the habits which this old hunter had learned in the fifty years of his busy life had given him that imperturbable look common to the Indians.
"You was never so surprised in all yer life, Cap'n, I reckon," he said. "You was mighty sick of roostin' up there in the fort, and no doubt thinkin' of having a turn for liberty yerself. Then Silver Fox come into the fort, and I'll bet what yer like that he walked about as ef he'd been thar many a time, and as ef he wasn't on no account to be hurried. He's that cool, he's like an icicle."
"He is a gallant fellow, and I thank him. Chief, I owe a lot to you as well as to these other friends. But who is the stranger?"
A tall Indian had stood in the background looking on at the scene with a half-suppressed air of contempt on his finely chiselled features, for your Indian could not understand the need for such warmth and such hand-shakings over a meeting. Silver Fox beckoned to him.
"This is my brother, Hawk," he said, "this is Flying Bird, a Mohawk once, and later a Huron. He is now again one of our tribe."
"And thereby hangs the tale of your release, my boy," broke in Mr. Mainwaring. "The story is soon told. This Flying Bird was born in the same wigwam as our old friend Silver Fox, and would have been there to this day had not the village been raided. The Hurons made a sudden descent, and Flying Bird was carried away. He was then seventeen, and almost a brave. He was spared, and became one of the Hurons, marrying into the tribe. Now he has lost his wife, and taking advantage of the fact that the Hurons were marching into the country adjacent to that in which the Mohawks lived, he made a journey to find Silver Fox. He came in the nick of time. I had just returned to find you a prisoner, and the band of scouts which you had formed near Fort William Henry about to be disbanded. They had been fortunate in escaping from the fort before the surrender, and of course there was little left for them to do.
"Well, we made plans to meet again at the breaking of the winter, and two months ago we gathered at Silver Fox's village. His brother had returned to Canada for the cold months, so as to allay suspicion, and we fell in with him ten days ago south of the St. Lawrence. As to how we reached that part, why, the movements of our troops are beginning to worry the French, and they are concentrating at the threatened places, leaving the upper reaches of the Richelieu and the country to the west of that river almost denuded of trappers and Indians. We slipped through, and——"
"And here you are, father. What is the next move?"
"We wait here for a week perhaps, till the hue and cry for you is over. Then we take to the river, capture some sort of craft, and sail for Nova Scotia."
Everything had, in fact, been carefully mapped out, and so far the plans of the rescue party had gone without a hitch. But there was a great deal still to be done, and many dangers would have to be faced before Steve and his friends could hope to reach safety again. However, they were not the men to flinch at the thought of danger. Indeed, they rather enjoyed the prospect and the novelty of their present position, and on the following morning eagerly scanned the city and its neighbourhood for signs of searchers.
"Fortunately for us they have very few Indians at their beck and call just now," said Mr. Mainwaring, "for they have sent them down to Ticonderoga and to the country about Louisbourg. There are a few lazy fellows still remaining, the ne'er-do-wells of the various tribes, and there is of course this small party of Hurons."
He smiled at Steve, and proceeded.
"You see, there was need for a party to lie close to Quebec, for it would have been impossible to spirit you away from the city in the few hours we had at our disposal. You will see why shortly, for the river will swarm with canoes, and what Indians there are will be sent off in search of your tracks. We had to have some arrangement whereby we could take up our quarters near the city, and Jim settled the matter very quickly."
"Thar warn't nothin' in it," growled the trapper. "We wanted to lie up here, and Flyin' Bird gave us the word that all the redskin varmint was off to other parts. Waal, Cap'n, we fixed it up that we should be a kind of deputation of Injuns from the Huron tribe come back to complain of the favouritism shown to other redskins. That air a likely tale, for these braves air always rowin' among theirselves. Flyin' Bird's seen the commandant, they've had a palaver. We're here waitin' for a proper palaver with this officer, and I reckon when he's ready we won't be so anxious to get our grievance to his ears. But there ain't no hurry. The French know how to deal with redskins, and they've larned long ago that time ain't anythin', that ef yer hurry matters yer show unnatural weakness and anxiety. So this officer'll wait a while, and when he sends, he won't find no one to greet him."
"And meanwhile we are fairly safe from interference," chimed in Mr. Mainwaring. "The Hurons are accustomed to stand aloof from other braves, and therefore we are hardly likely to have visitors. If some come, Flying Bird will entertain them."
Daylight showed that the authorities at Quebec were determined to retake their late prisoner if possible. Canoes filled with soldiers and trappers swarmed on the river, and the steep shore all along on either side of the city was closely scrutinised. Then a strong party was sent out along the banks of the St. Charles river, for that was a likely direction for a fugitive to take. Once a party of trappers even came to the Huron wigwam lying in the hollow.
"We seek a pale face who has broken away from the city," said their spokesman, addressing Flying Bird, who alone appeared to meet them. "Have you seen traces of him. He broke away last night."
"Then his trail will have been stamped out by the coming and going of the people," was the curt answer. "Here, however, there may be traces, my brothers. I have not looked for them, but if they are here surely you who are accustomed to the forest and the trail should be able to discover them. For us, we are resting. We require favours before we will help your countrymen."
Flying Bird remained seated all the while, smoking placidly. The Frenchmen stared at him doubtfully, muttered words beneath their breath, and moved away.
"Let the dog sit there and rot if he will," growled