CHAPTER V

How the Americans Came to York, April 27, 1813.

"Steady, man," said Dr. Tam, with his hand on Edgar's arm. "The laddie's threatening to disinherit you, instead of waiting for you to do it to him. Now, listen, I'm an officer in Ferguson's regiment, and no matter what he puts in private letters, which are none of my business, I want to tell you something. Down at Lake Champlain the Governor-General, Prevost, visited us. We were to make an attack on the Yankee camp, and the night before I heard Ferguson preaching to the men. He told them that being ready to die made a man more fit to live. A Christian soldier can do his duty more calmly and bravely and be more true to the king and obedient to his officers.

"He was standing on a box by a camp fire, with the men all 'round him listening in deep silence. I saw the colonel come up with Governor Prevost, who seemed surprised at a soldier's preaching. The colonel said to Captain Haslem, who was there—'What kind of man is Ferguson? Does he do his duty?'. The captain said—'He is always ready for any call; all I ever heard against him is his preaching, and reproving the men for swearing.' The Governor said—'I think we will let him go on then. The army needs some chaplains.'

"The Yankees were gone when we went the next day. Our men plundered the farms quite a bit. I kept my eye on Ferguson, and saw that he not only never touched a thing, but kept the men near him better behaved than they would have been. Now, you let the lad be till the lake opens. There'll be stiff fighting then, and if he does his duty let him have what religion he likes."

Edgar nodded grumpily, and as Ned left the room, he added, "If he fails I'll send him off. I've worked too hard to make a name here to have it disgraced by a Methodist coward."

He said very little to Ned during the next two months. On the twenty-fifth of April, the ice had cleared from Toronto Bay, and Bee, in her serge habit and plumed hat, sat very upright on her horse as she rode by Sir John along the muddy water front to the wharves.

"They are very slow with those ships," she remarked, with the air of a naval expert. "Major Edgar says there is too much red tape."

"Ladies shouldn't talk of war or politics. The feminine mind cannot understand such things," but Sir John smiled on Bee with kindly toleration as he spoke, for he was very fond of the outspoken, affectionate girl. Then his face clouded again. Three ships should have been ready by now, and only one stood complete—the "Gloucester", which was then leisurely taking her guns on board. The second ship was ready for launching, and men were working hard on the third. Sir John had not been able to adapt himself to the new conditions 'round him, as a younger man might. He was mainly responsible for the delay with the ships, for Archy had been recommended to him as a practical ship-builder, and the stately baronet had been so scandalized by Archy's free and easy manners and lack of grammar, that when that young man pointed out a score of makeshifts that could be used on the new ships, and quoted the Americans as having built a vessel of sixty-six guns at Sackett's Harbor, eighty days after her first timbers had been laid, Sir John told him firmly that such things would not do in British ship-building. So snubbed him, that Archy had given no more advice. Work on the ships had been stopped continually, while "proper equipments" were being dragged up the long trail from Quebec.

"Old man means well, and I kinder like him," Archy told Edgar, "but he's so stiffened up with pipeclay that he can't move except according to regulations. I'm getting sorrier all the time that General Brock's dead. Them Shawanese at Detroit wouldn't have acted up so if he'd been round, and these ships would have got done."

Blake, the pompous captain of the "Gloucester", came to speak to Sir John, and Bee, looking round, saw Susie walking with Ned in his militia uniform, along Palace Street. Susie looked very pretty in her short skirted house dress of homespun, with white collar and a knot of red ribbon, and one of two young officers riding by stared at her with impertinent admiration. The other, who was Vere, pretended not to see Ned, but as they reached Sir John, Roke, his friend, remarked, "Pretty thing over there with the red ribbons."

"That lady is the wife of Major Edgar, sir," said Sir John coldly. He disliked Roke, whom he blamed for enticing Vere into the drinking and gambling bouts which were continually unfitting him for duty, and bitterly disappointing his grandfather.

"We don't speak of a lady under a colonel's wife," said Roke to Vere as they rode on. "A captain's wife may be a woman, but under that they are only things; and militia titles don't count."

Vere laughed, because he was afraid of being laughed at if he didn't, though he was secretly disgusted with Roke's coarseness. Unfortunately, Archy, passing by, heard the doubtful joke. He repeated it to four militia men who knew Edgar and his wife well, adding, "There's a dance to-night at their Palace place, and Mrs. Edgar will be there sure, with most of our women. Now I haven't anything against most of the crowd they'll meet—a bit too starched for my taste that's all. But that there Roke doesn't get to no dance in York with our women, and I guess you boys will have to help me find him another engagement for to-night."

The ball was at its height that evening (and away at the other end of the lake, two frigates with a dozen transports stood out from Sackett's Harbour to attack York) when Sheaffe was asking why Roke was not there, he having sent for him.

Roke finally entered, smothered in mud from head to foot. He said that as he drove to the ball with his servant, five masked men stopped them. One cut the horse loose and drove him on. The others lifted the light cart and turned it over with its occupants imprisoned beneath it in a deep mud hole. When they got out, the five had vanished, but Roke accused Ned and some companions, for he imagined the young man had resented his look at Susie. It was easily proved, however, that Ned had not left home that evening, and his name was dropped, though Roke still thought him responsible.

All York talked of Roke's mishap the next day, and Sheaffe attempted vainly to find the mysterious five. Then Roke was forgotten, for at four in the afternoon Gibraltar Point signalled that the enemy's fleet was in sight, about twenty miles away, and approaching them.

York called out her defenders, two hundred regulars, three hundred militia, and one hundred Indians. These last were stationed in little groups in the woods round Humber Bay, Edgar and Tahata being with them. The white men spent the night under arms in Fort Toronto, while in the town the women buried silver, and tore up linen for bandages.

Before dawn Ned was hurrying through the bush with Archy and his company, very afraid that a queer feeling he had was fear. Hideous faces daubed in black and white and blood red, peered at them as they passed. The Indians were waiting for the fight in their war-costume of loin-cloth and paint. Only the chiefs wore buckskin shirts and leggings, though their faces looked like demon masks. Suddenly Ned met his father, dressed as he had seen him first at Quebec, with a belt of wampum as his badge of office. Now he only held out his hand, but his grip and smile steadied Ned's nerves. He felt that his father believed in him, and it gave him confidence in himself.

He crouched in the woods by Humber Bay, watching the enemy's ships. They seemed very close now, ghostly looking shapes in the morning twilight. Their boats were being loaded with troops to land beyond the range of Fort Toronto's guns.

The boats came in, black shapes on the dawn-lit water, and from every point in the woods on the shore came the wildest, most blood-curdling sound Ned had ever heard—a long drawn out unearthly yell—the war-whoop of the Mohawks. At the same time they fired, not in volleys, but each Indian picking out his man. Then Fort Toronto spoke in fire, for the two warships were nearing the entrance to the harbour. They answered instantly with their heavier guns, and a rolling cloud of smoke shut out the sight of the risen sun from Humber Bay, and the roar of the cannonading dulled the noise of the conflict on the shore. A mass of blue-clad men had landed there, to be met by a savage scattering fire from the Indians and a sheet of flame from the ambushed militia. Ned, for the first time, was firing at living men. His nervousness had vanished, he forgot his scruples against war. He fired, loaded, and fired again, in almost mechanical obedience to orders.

He stopped firing on command, for out of the fort came a wave of scarlet tipped with steel—the regulars were charging with the bayonet on those blue lines forming on the shore.

"My happy grandmother!" ejaculated Archy, "there's something besides starch in those fellows, swinging into battle like that. I just hate to fight out in the open; you see——"

Ned never knew what. The order to charge came to them, and he was dashing out of cover at Archy's heels. He gasped as the man beside him fell in a crumpled heap, and the bullets whistled past his ears. Then he forgot himself in that mêleé of battling men.

* * *

The sun, a fierce red ball, gleamed through the smoke, and by the green woods men in red coats, men in gray coats, and men in no coats at all, flung themselves on the blue lines which wavered, and stumbled backward into the shallows of the lake. Now more boats were coming from the ships, the American general, Pike, standing in the foremost, as he cheered on his men.

Ned was parted from his companions in the rush. He sprang over a log, and fired at an American officer who came at him with uplifted sword. The man fell, and all the delirium of battle passed from Ned's brain, as he stared horror-struck at his fallen foe. The American was on his feet again, and the dark blood streaming from his shoulder. He leaned weakly against a tree, and raised his sword. Ned looked round and saw a young Indian, frightful with his naked painted body and a dripping scalp at his girdle, levelling his musket at the wounded man. Instantly Ned was between them—"Stop, Kawque," he cried to the Indian, "the man is wounded. He has surrendered."

"I have not," said the American, adding with biting contempt, "I do not surrender to a renegade. I prefer to be shot, rather than massacred as my countrymen were, who surrendered to yours at Detroit."

Ned heard the Indian move behind him, and knew in a moment that he would see the wounded man shot down. Something in the American's proud eyes gave him an inspiration, and he cried, "Are you Eli Goode? I am Ned Edgar, and I know your sister. For Bee Goode's sake, surrender now."

The American's face changed, as quickly as Bee's often did. He lowered his sword, exclaiming, "Bee wrote of you in England."

The Indian glided away, and Eli sank fainting to the ground again. Ned cut his coat away, bandaging the wound with a skill he had learnt from Dr. Brown. He did not knew that for a few minutes he and Eli had been alone in the thicket, but that they were then surrounded by the advancing Americans. For an instant Ned was covered by a dozen rifles, which were raised as quickly as his occupation was discovered. He stood up very dismayed, but the foremost American was speaking. "Reckon you took the captain prisoner, and now we have taken you, so an exchange will be all right. Better chase yourself out of this, stranger." Ned snatched up his rifle and ran.

He was soon back to the woods, where his friends had retreated. It was now ten o'clock, and the battle was lost. Fort Toronto's fortifications had been ruined, and her guns silenced by the enemy's fire. Her garrison had left and fallen back on Western Battery, where the scattered men from Humber Bay joined them. As Ned came in he saw the American flag rise over the ruins of their first fort. Just then he did not love his enemies at all.

He saw Sir John sitting on his horse as composed in that hour of defeat and danger as if he had been on parade. Ned watched him giving orders to the waiting men 'round him, with a great respect for British discipline. Then Edgar hurried by, his stern face softening as he saw his son. He went to Sir John who sent him on to burn the ships on the stocks, and wrote another order for Vere to take to the captain of the "Gloucester", that she must be blown up. Then after speaking to the men who were spiking the guns of Western Battery, he rode off towards Half-moon Fort where Sheaffe was waiting. Ned and his companions followed, plodding along like the weary defeated men they were.

Outside Western Battery, Pike and the advancing Americans had halted, summoning the silent fort. But they got no answer, the regulars were just leaving, Vere riding by their captain. Ned saw flames bursting from the new ships, and immediately after was thrown to the ground by an explosion that shook the earth beneath him. The powder magazine of Western Battery had blown up—an awful volcano of flame and smoke, the debris of a fort, and the high-hurled broken bodies of three hundred men.

Americans, including General Pike, and English were killed alike, and the explosion itself was a mystery. Certainly neither army could have been intentionally responsible for it, entailing as it did, the lives of so many men on each side.

Ned picked himself up unhurt, and looked back in horror. He saw Vere stumble up from beside his dead horse, and run a few steps, then fall again, brought down by a sharpshooter's bullet. Many of the scattered Americans were sheltering in the woods.

Only remembering the old schoolboy friendship, Ned crept from stump to stump, till he was crouching by Vere in the slender cover of a pile of brushwood. Vere's face was drawn, and his eyes, wild with fear, stared at Ned as he spoke in panting jerks—"I'm dying, Ned."

"You're not dying, Vere," said Ned, as he skilfully bandaged the wound. It was in the leg, dangerously near a large artery. Ned knew it needed better attention than he could give, but how was Vere to be got to Half-moon Fort, across the common swept by the enemy's fire? Ned knelt down, managed to get Vere on his back, and praying the bandage might not slip, stepped out boldly. Very slowly he walked along beside the forest in whose shades Death crouched, but with American chivalry no man fired, and they reached Half-moon in safety.

There Ned was hailed by Archy. "Hello, didn't know what had become of you. We've got to get out of here. The women from the Palace are in town—Mrs. Haslem and Miss Bee are at your place and the Yankees won't hurt anything in petticoats; Sheaffe and the regulars, and the wounded in wagons, are making tracks for the Don bridge, and as the Yankees won't take the militia prisoners, if they come in and give their parole, he says we can do as we like. You can bet your sweet life I ain't going to give no parole, but I'm not going to Kingston with Sheaffe either. I'm off to the bush till I can find a general who does things, but it'll be all right for you to look after your redcoat friend."

So the very independent militia captain went off, with most of his companions, to look for a commander they approved of. Ned meanwhile found a surgeon, and helped put Vere in the last of the hurrying wagons, that took the wounded past sullen little York, and crossing the Don bridge, plunged into the woods along the Quebec Road (Kingston Highway). Vere sat up and held out his hand to Ned as the wagon reached the Don, for Ned was one of the rear guard who were to fire the bridge, after the retreating party had crossed. They did this, and Ned managed to be left on the Toronto side of the river. Then he made for the woods behind York, hoping to find his sagacious, ungrammatical captain.

The smoke from the burning bridge joined that of the fire by the wharves, wrapping Edgar, as he stood on the shore, impatiently waiting for the messenger with the order that should prevent the capture of the "Gloucester". The Americans had been delayed by the confusion following the death of Pike, but Edgar was expecting to see their frigates off the wharves every minute. He had already been once to beg the captain to blow her up without the order. He could tell him it had been given, and its non-delivery was no doubt owing to the messenger's death in the explosion. But Blake had declined to take orders—or advice—from a militia officer, and Edgar had fumed on shore, to hurry back as his quick eye saw the enemy's ships advancing slowly through the smoke.

But Half-moon Battery was empty with her guns spiked, and without a crew, the "Gloucester" could not fight. Still her captain refused to destroy her till the last minute, and before Edgar could convince him it had come, the frigates bore triumphantly down on them, and they were ignominiously captured. York surrendered at once, and at two in the afternoon, the American flag was raised over the town. The parliament buildings were sacked and fired, the town escaping by payment of a money requisition, but the stores were emptied and many houses robbed of silver, the enemy getting a spoil, mainly in furs, of half a million dollars.

The officers of the "Gloucester" were sent on shore. Only Edgar stayed. A lean American pointed at him accusingly—"You are the renegade who called yourself Kaanah," he cried.

"That is my name in the lodges of the Mohawks," Edgar answered carelessly. "If you mean to hang me you have a good chance." He glanced at the yardarm above his head, and threw open his collar, adding, "I am also a British subject, and England will make you pay for my murder. It would be nothing else, for you cannot find a man who can say I have done anything unworthy of my race."

But the men round him were possessed by that hate of the Indian which has so often hurried men of the new world into thoughtless reprisal, and Edgar would have died, had not a girl appeared among the soldiers on the shore. She was holding the arm of an American officer, white-faced and with a bandaged shoulder. Eli had got himself billeted on Susie to protect his sister and her friends, and he had gone out with Bee to look for Edgar, whom he knew would be in danger if recognized among the prisoners. Bee saw Edgar, and Eli sent her back at once, going on board himself. "Gentlemen," he said to Edgar's judges, "fifteen years ago my father met Mr. Edgar, both travelling through the Ohio valley. They were captured by the Shawanese. Mr. Edgar was spared because he was English, and Tecumseh was hoping for the friendship of the English against us. My father was to be burned at the stake, but Mr. Edgar risked sharing his fate by pleading and offering bribes, and instead of both dying, both were spared, and the Indians named this man Kaanah, 'One-who-is-a-Friend'. They were close friends till my father's death, when he left my only sister to Mr. Edgar's guardianship. England may have shamed her civilization by her alliance with savages, but though as a soldier Mr. Edgar could not choose his duties, I am certain he has never been a renegade to his white blood."

Eli's defence of his father's friend was accepted, and Edgar was sent to the other prisoners at the palace. It was night now; in conquered York the women grieved for their dead, and prayed for their living—the men who were in the woods, and who would not surrender.

As Edgar entered the big room where the English prisoners were, he saw Roke among them, and heard him saying—"The worst of all is letting them get the 'Gloucester', and Sir John gave Ensign Haslem the order for her captain. I heard him. And I saw young Haslem being carried to a wagon by Ned Edgar, and also saw him hold out his hand to Ned, evidently giving him something. Now, that order was not delivered, and as Ned is not among the dead or prisoners, it means that he ran without doing what he was ordered."

"You lie," said Edgar promptly. Roke turned on him angrily, but the other men interfered. Exhaustion was more responsible for peace than forebearance, however, and Roke, with most of the others, was asleep, when he was awakened some time later by Edgar.

"I'm going to escape," said the militia officer briefly, "I know more about this Palace than the men who think they are guarding us, and you are going with me. You called my son a coward, and when we find Ensign Haslem, and when he says, as I know he will, that it was not to Ned that he gave the letter, I shall take great pleasure in shooting you."

CHAPTER VI.

How Ned Lost His Good Name, and Vere His Soul.

Two hundred dispirited men straggled wearily through the slough into which the spring thaws and rains had turned the Quebec road. The wagons laden with the unhappy wounded sank to their axles in the mud holes, and had to be lifted and pulled out by the men, many of their occupants begging to be laid by the roadside and left to die in peace. Then, too, they were continually in fear of being attacked by the American war ships, the road frequently running on the lake shore. Fortunately for them, the Americans had crossed the lake to attack Newark (Niagara-on-the-Lake) then the wealthiest town in Upper Canada, with its strong Fort George.

After weary days the little force crossed the only bridge Kingston had left standing, and its loosened planks clattered under their feet. At the news of the fall of York, Kingston had destroyed every bridge over the several rivers near her, except one, and that could easily have been fired had the enemy landed in the neighbourhood.

Vere had suffered a great deal during the retreat, but he recovered rapidly in the pleasant room given him, its windows showing a varied view of lake and river, and the harbour where the little war fleet of Lake Ontario lay, with the shipping that had escaped the enemy's sweep. As the barracks and officers' quarters were at the eastern extremity of the town, he could see much of Kingston itself, looking sedate and solid with its many stone buildings.

He was half dozing in pleasant contemplation of all when Sir John burst in upon him one morning. "Did you give the note you were carrying when you were wounded to Ned Edgar?" he asked sharply.

"Yes, sir. Why do you ask?" gasped Vere, his lips growing white as he remembered that in his fear he had forgotten the note, which lay in his pocket still.

Sir John did not see Vere's face. He had turned to the window. "I always feared Ned would come to a bad end," he was muttering. "He is missing now, and I hope will continue so—for his father's sake. Major Edgar came in with Roke this morning."

The deadly horror that had clutched Vere's heart relaxed its hold, for he did not fear sin, but punishment. Now he thought he had done no harm, for Ned was away somewhere, and might never meet these men who believed this of him. Then as Sir John left the room, he limped to the fire place, and dropped the paper on the flames. He was called that day before a court of inquiry into the loss of the "Gloucester", and gave his false evidence with no more reluctance than seemed natural in one who had been Ned's school friend. Edgar listened to him, his face calm, but his very soul scalded with the shame he believed Ned had brought upon him.

A week later Ned stood at the gate of Kingston Fort. He had lost his way completely in the woods, and had been found by a hunting party of Indians, who when they had got enough game, took it and him to Kingston. So Ned told his story, bewildered at the looks of the men who questioned him. What had he done but try to join his captain and company? Then suddenly his arms were jerked behind him and his wrists shackled with steel. Ned's eyes flamed, and he felt himself shaken with fury and resentment. But surely his father was there, and would never let any injustice be done him.

He was still looking for Edgar when he was brought before a court of bleak-eyed men, who were in hourly expectation of an attack on Kingston. Newark had sent for help they could not give—and they were in no mood to have mercy on anyone who did not do his duty at such a time. Ned's brain reeled as he heard the charge against him—of disobedience and cowardice. In a voice he did not recognize as his own, he answered, "I never saw this letter, sir, nor heard of it till now."

"Enter the plea, 'Not Guilty'," said the President shortly, as Roke was called, and told to tell what he had really seen.

"This man is my enemy," said Ned in a low tone to the officer appointed as his counsel, "He is saying this in revenge for a trick he thinks I played on him. If Ensign Haslem were alive and here he would say he gave me nothing. We only shook hands."

"Oh, you thought Ensign Haslem was dead and you could face the rest out," said the man. "You are certainly a cool one."

Ned did not hear him, Roke had told his tale and stepped down, and Vere, ghastly pale and limping, was taking the solemn oath. Then with no thought but to save himself, he betrayed the friend who had saved him—to death. In a low voice but without hesitation he answered the questions put him.

Like one in the grip of a ghastly nightmare Ned looked 'round him. He saw his father, with eyes that had love frozen in them. He knew Edgar believed him guilty too, and he looked despairingly through the window where the careless sunshine flashed on the open water under the tender May sky. Would God, who was so careful of the spring flowers and nesting birds, let the clean name he valued far more than life be taken from him? Was there any God?

The room grew black round him for an instant, for they were sentencing him to die—as a coward. The instinct of his blood made him set his teeth, and force himself to face them calmly—to walk steadily from the room, and back to his prison. But something seemed to give way in his brain, and when they left him there, chained in the darkness, he was very near the black bounds of insanity.

Vere had left the court directly he gave his evidence, and he looked in blank horror at Sir John when he heard the sentence, "You have influence, sir," he panted, "I thought—I hoped you would help him. He is not as much to blame as you think, and he saved me."

"What on earth do you mean?" Sir John exclaimed irritably.

The truth that would save his soul rose to Vere's lips, but his coward spirit kept it from passing them. "I meant he is so young," he stammered. "I should have given the note to an older man. And then if he had not put that bandage on, I should have bled to death before the surgeon reached me."

To Sir John, to be born a Haslem meant that a man could not lie. He had learned nothing from the old scandal buried in the graves of his reckless son, and the weak wicked woman he had married. Dr. Brown could have warned him that Vere needed the wisest training, and that drinking would surely rot the weak moral fibres he had inherited. Now at twenty he was, even when quite sober, a decaying soul.

Ned roused from a stupor, as a man entered his cell. It was Sells, the blackguard of the "Lightfoot", whom his regiment had managed to get rid of, and who was now in the garrison at Kingston. He felt Sells taking the irons off his legs, and the memory of everything swept over him like a flame. He shuddered as if fire had touched his flesh, then walked out quietly. A man waiting put his hand on his shoulder, and led him out of doors into a still night, where a big moon showed they were in a stump-filled field outside the fort.

They two were quite alone, and Ned felt some surprise. His escort's grip tightened upon his shoulder and he dug his fingers in convulsively. Ned said quietly—"Is it necessary to hold me so tightly, sir? I am not trying to run away."

The sound of his prisoner's voice seemed to madden the man. With an oath he flung Ned from him with all his strength. Ned went down heavily among the limestone outcroppings, and picked himself up, bruised and shaken, to face in the moonlight—his father.

Cursing him with the passion of a man utterly beside himself, Edgar broke out—"Why didn't you shoot yourself when you knew what you had done, instead of coming here to disgrace yourself, and your brothers and me? It's that infernal Methodism that's put the coward taint in your blood."

Ned crimsoned at the attack on his faith, and answered as passionately as his father—"Why isn't my word as good as Vere Haslem's? I tell you I never saw the letter."

He fell down again before his father's fist. There was blood on his lips where it had struck as he rose, and he did not try to speak again but stood with arms folded. He was indifferent if Edgar should kill him, which he seemed quite capable of doing.

"Go," said Edgar thickly, "before I shoot you. Go to the Yankees, curse them! You're the worst thing I could wish them to have. I only bribed your guard to help you to escape so that your punishment shouldn't disgrace your brothers. But if I ever meet you on Canadian soil again, I'll shoot you on sight. Go, before I do it now."

Ned went blindly into the bush, where a rough voice called him. He knew nothing and cared nothing. Coming to the shore, he was pushed upon a boat which dimly impressed him as a large schooner, and which set off at once across the lake. His brain clearing, he saw she was manned by a score of men, in the uniforms of both armies, deserters who instead of leaving one side to join the other, meant to form a gang with Sells for the leader, and hide in the woods near Niagara, plundering all they could. "And you want me to join you?" said Ned indifferently, as Sells explained their intentions to him.

"We'll make you want to. We want you, for Dr. Tam on the 'Lightfoot' said you could do a little of his job quite decently. We won't hurt you if you do as you are told, and as you seem one of the coward sort, we'll leave you behind when there's any fighting going on. We're taking you to mend hurts, not to make them, and you can amuse us too—give us a mock Methodist sermon when we're dull. I wonder what Ferguson will say when he hears that his pet ran away in the first battle? I never thought till I saw you in the court that you were like that."

In the darkness Ned's fists clenched, but he did not strike the mocking face before him. He felt that a blinded Justice had robbed him of the right to resent insult. So he answered sullenly, "Any man who was a coward would be glad to join you."

They took that for his assent, and left him to pretence of sleep. He lay listening to the talk of these men who had dropped all thought of decency and were thieves, and there came to him the temptation to end his life. This scum of society was henceforth to be the only class open to him—no honest man would ever touch his hand again. Why not "Curse God and die?"

In Kingston, the next morning, Ned's escape was discovered, but only Sells was blamed for helping him, and their names were posted together as deserters. No one paid much attention. Across the lake Fort George, the key to Niagara, was answering the heavy cannonade of the American fleet. And on that same day, May 27, the British war ships with a thousand men on board, left Kingston to attack Sackett's Harbour, hoping that the absence of the American fleet would enable them to capture the naval stores there. It was a day of double defeat. In the afternoon a carrier pigeon dropped into Kingston with a note that said Vincent, the commander at Fort George, running out of powder, had retired into the bush after spiking his guns and firing his stores. The Americans had not followed him, they having a very exaggerated idea of the number of Indians in the British service. They now held Newark, and the entire Niagara district.

Then the fleet came back from Sackett's Harbour, leaving three hundred men, dead, wounded, and missing, behind them. Among them was Edgar, who had volunteered to join the landing party, which had been hemmed in and captured.

And Ned, in the deserters' boat, as the dark madness that suggested suicide still held his mind, saw that the shore was near, and taking a musket, dropped noiselessly overboard and swam to shore. There he wandered into the bush, not knowing where, only avoiding every trail of man, for his brain had been so weakened by the shock of his unjust condemnation that he felt he was too disgraced ever to let any man of any nation see his face again. He shot some game, and spent a few days in a tiny limestone cave, then wandered on restlessly, sleeping one night in the bush. Waking the third morning in utter despair, he was almost surprised to hear himself calling out, "What shall I do?"

"Be good, that's all," said a clear voice near him, and he sprang up in alarm, to face Bee in a homespun skirt and calico sunbonnet. He heard the sound of chickens and cow-bells, and saw he was close to York.

"Ned Edgar!" she exclaimed in delight. "I am so used to have sentries stopping me everywhere, that when I heard you speak, I thought I had better say my name, and let you see me."

"Be good, that's all," repeated Ned, looking at her with dazed eyes. "But what can I do good now? Where shall I go?"

Bee gasped, dashed off, and was back in a minute with a brimming can of milk. "Drink this," she said severely, and as Ned obeyed, she added, "You are disgraceful; all the men I know are. They shoot each other, and get hurt, and go without proper meals, when they might be at home doing respectable work. Do you know a wonderful thing has happened? Cousin Betty has the dearest baby in the world, and she is here with Mamma Edgar, and Eli is taking care of us all. The baby's name is York—and Cousin Percy stays with his regiment at Lake Champlain, or somewhere. If I were he I would die if I didn't fly home and see my delicious baby the minute it came. But you must come to the house with me and have breakfast."

Revived by the milk, Ned followed Bee into York; desolate York with the ashes of her buildings lying black beside the fields no one had plowed or sown that spring. Ned missed the military life at the barracks, and the flag he had always seen over them. The American forces had left, Bee told him, but their ships came in constantly, and Eli was there now. There were few men in the place, no one came to trade, and the streets looked forlorn, for the blight of war was on the land.

Edgar's empty store, with its doors swinging idly open, gave Ned a shock. His father, Bee told him was a prisoner of war, but Susie would be glad to see him. Evidently the news of his disgrace had not reached York, but he knew he must not go under his father's roof, nor eat his bread. He began to say something of this, but Bee stopped him. "We will have breakfast out of doors, and eat what Eli brought."

"You don't understand, Miss Bee, what my father thinks I am."

"I can guess, I know Papa Edgar, but being an American I don't see things as he does. Eli and I have been hoping you would do it."

"I don't know what you are talking about, but you certainly don't know the truth, and you must hear it before we go any further."

Without preface he told her of his arrest at Kingston, and then the trial. Bee's bewilderment at the abrupt beginning changed to horror as he repeated Vere's evidence. "Poor Vere," she murmured.

"What do you pity him for?" said Ned roughly, "even if you do think me guilty."

"You? You are strong, you will soon get over this; it is only a little thing," (Ned wondered what her idea of serious trouble was) "but Vere was a traitor to you, and traitors must go to—to their own place." Her voice sank to a whisper, but she dared not say the terrible name.

The straight, strong faith he had accepted once came back to Ned then. Time seemed nothing beside eternity, the blundering injustice of men too little a thing to think of beside the awful Justice of God, high-throned in eternal calm. He raised his head for the first time since they had chained him at Kingston—"Then you do not think I am guilty, though Sir John does?" he asked her.

She laughed softly. "You a coward—who saved my brother!" she exclaimed, and before he guessed what she meant to do, she had kissed him on his forehead, flushing a little as the instinct of a young girl made itself felt through the impulsive abandon of a child. "That is what I think of you," she repeated. "I never kissed any man but Sir John, and Papa Edgar and Eli before, but I think I love you nearly as much as Eli, and I believe in you as much as I do in him. Now, sit right down here, while I get breakfast."

Ned sat down, but that kiss had given him back his courage and self-respect; he knew now what he could do. Then Bee came out again, followed by Chloe with a tray of dishes, and Eli with the coffee pot.

So they sat down to their pic-nic meal. Eli was startled at Ned's white face, and evident nervous condition, but put it down to dejection at the British defeats, and weeks of starving in the bush. He talked about the weather, and tried to stop Bee when she started on the war, but that young lady insisted on talking as she liked. "I hope this dreadful war is almost over," she said earnestly. "Upper Canada is conquered except Kingston and those few men from Fort George who are in the bush. Brother Eli, what are you making signs at me for? What are you trying to make me do?"

"Nothing, I assure you, my dear girl. I may be able to manage the crew of a ship, but I know I couldn't one woman, even a very young one. Do you ever let any body boss you, Bee?"

"Only Cousin Betty; I have to do all she says. She made a heap of regulations for my conduct, and put me on my honour to report to her when I break one. I always write my reports in a book and give it in to her. I made the book myself—its title is 'The sins of a Lifetime, being the Confessions of Miss Beatrice Truth Goode, of Boston.' And its motto is from that dearest Sir Walter Scott—'High minds most deeply feel thy pangs, Remorse.' Then I have to sew seams, for punishment, miles and miles of seams, I am sure. And now, Ned, I suppose you will have to lodge at Widow Giles. Mamma Edgar can't have you in the house after what your father said, but she will be delighted that you are looking after the place, we can't get a man to do anything. I don't understand the Canadian militia not coming in, when they know they have only to give their parole and go to their homes, where now just women and old men are trying to do the work; and as they can't put in crops enough, they will all be starving next winter. I am so glad you are sensible, and willing to be friends."

Ned stood up very embarrassed, and realizing that these friends, the only ones he seemed to have, were by the unnatural laws of war his enemies. "Captain Goode," he said, "I must apologize to you and Miss Bee. I think I lost my senses in the bush, for I forgot we were at war till this minute. I cannot give my parole, so must surrender myself to you as a prisoner."

CHAPTER VII.

How Ned Planned to Justify Bee's Faith in Him.

"I don't take prisoners at my table, Mr. Edgar," said Eli quietly, while the happy laughter died out of Bee's face and she looked bleakly at the two young men.

"But I thought the war was over," she cried. "Brother Eli, you said that when the Americans had York and Newark, Upper Canada would realize that she must change her flags, and the Canadian militia would all come in and give their paroles not to fight any more, and then they would go to their farms; and now they are all staying in the bush, and even Ned, who I thought had come in, says he hasn't. What are you going to do with him?"

"That is for you to say, Bee, you brought him in, and I presume you had better let him go out again. Some more coffee please, with lots of sugar."

Bee was very silent the rest of the meal, then she took Ned to see the baby, which Chloe was nursing. Betty asked Ned eagerly after her men; she was thinking too much of Percy, of whose whereabouts they knew nothing, to notice Ned's embarrassment as he answered her. Then Bee and Ned were out in the garden by themselves.

"What are you going to do?" Bee demanded.

"With your permission, Miss Bee, I will go to our men at Stony Creek, or near. They have no communication with Kingston, so I can join them, and hope for a chance to retrieve my good name."

"Yes, I understand, I suppose you must go on fighting," she answered with a wan smile. "Here is a bag of bread, and you have your gun. Good-bye."

Ned had a long lonely tramp along the lake shore, till one morning, it was June 6, he heard at dawn the roar of distant cannon, and knew the invaders had located, and were attacking Vincent. All that day he walked on steadily, feverishly eager to know how the fight had gone. The long summer day was ending, when he heard the sounds of many men near him in the gloom, though there was no smell of smoke or gleam of a camp-fire. Ned went on carefully, saw a redcoated sentry, was challenged by him, and was the next moment exuberantly greeted by Tim Kelly.

"Sure, and its the Swaddler's friend," Tim cried. "Are you asking if he's alive and well? Just swear a bit, me boy, and he'll be down on you immediate. No, we're not at Lake Champlain, we're here, breaking our hearts entirely marching through woods that last forever and ever. We left our women at Montreal, and have been getting through the forest ever since, talking in whispers and walking on our tiptoes. Barring the time we were at Kingston, we've never been able to light a fire, and my stomach's about dead with eating uncooked meat and things, and the Swaddler's real worried because he can't stop to wash his clothes; if he'd been a gentleman born, he couldn't hate being dirty more."

"Were you at Kingston long?" asked Ned with a great fear in his heart. He had meant to give an assumed name when he found the fighting force, but now this was impossible. And though Tim evidently knew nothing, his officers might.

"Just long enough for Ferguson to find a bunch of Swaddlers," said Tim carelessly. "Do you know, me boy, why the heathen here paint their faces?"

"I suppose it is their custom," Ned answered absently.

"It's because these woods are cruel hard on clothes, me boy, and when a man has only half of nothing left of his trousers he naturally paints to hide his blushes."

* * *

Ned was passed into the lines, where Percy met him, and the captain's greeting told him he was in no fear of discovery as yet. He was given food, and a large ration of whiskey, which he refused.

"Look here, young man," said the old sergeant severely, "do you know you're a fool? Going without drink's bad for a man's health, especially when like now he can't get proper cooked food. We don't want tee-total fanatics in the army, they'd break down on a hard march."

"Let him alone, Giles," said Percy's voice behind them in the dark. "Don't you know he is a Swaddler, like Ferguson? You know he never touches liquors, and he has not broken down through all this hard marching. I should imagine you would like more 'fanatics' like him, who never grumbles at anything, and stands the hardest work better than stronger looking men than himself."

"Stick to your Swaddling, Ned," Percy added, as the sergeant left them, "you'll have a lot of temptations here with us, but don't backslide—I think that is what you call it. You will do well for yourself if you keep steady, and you'll do that if you can keep to what you are now. Do you remember a man called Sells, on board the 'Lightfoot'? He had some education, but drink and wild living wrecked his life and he enlisted. He might have risen then, for he had the ability to lead men, but drink brought him into continual disgrace. He's at Kingston now, too degraded ever to rise again."

Ned was thankful it was too dark for Percy to see his face, and he was glad to be sent on to Ferguson, whose blanket he shared that night.

"It seems a long time since our first night in Canada," the Methodist said. "How is it with you? In all our hard marching I have seemed to be dwelling in the clefts of the Rock."

"You were at Kingston?" Ned asked, not knowing what to say. He longed to confide in Ferguson, yet dare not compromise him by letting him know his friend was legally an escaped criminal.

"Yes," Ferguson answered, "everything had a warlike appearance there—God and eternity forgotten. I asked if there were any Methodists in town, and a peddler told me of a militia captain who was also a class leader. The man spoke with a blush, for he had been one of our travelling preachers, but had backslidden, and taken up worldly work. Still he was very kind to me. He introduced me to the class leader captain, whose company was like 'a water brook to the panting hart'. I had been so long away from any who knew Canaan's language."

"I can't understand why our lives should be so hard to live some times," Ned spoke with a bitterness that surprised his friend.

"In the secret of His tabernacle did He hide me," said Ferguson quietly. "My great trouble on this march is the injury this army has done to the farmers on our way. We have plenty of meat, but not much else to eat, and the men will steal handfuls of garden stuff, or slip out and milk a cow. I have kept from touching anything that was not paid for, and God has given me favor in the sight of all. My comrades will not swear or steal in my presence, and any privilege I ask of my officers is readily granted."

Ned slept then till he was awakened by Ferguson's touch. All round tired men were sleeping heavily, but a wonderful dawn was flushing the sky above Lake Ontario, which was turning from dull gray to the tints of a pearl shell. Overhead the birds were calling, and Ferguson had risen in accordance with the discipline of his church, which bade a man rise an hour before his work compelled him to, to read the Bible on his knees, and pray. Ned had forgotten to pray since his life had been blasted by a traitor's lie, but now he knelt by Ferguson, thanking God for the young girl's kiss that had given him courage to face his world again.

And now for the chance to clear his name. At present communication with Kingston was almost impossible, and if he could win a name for bravery with Vincent, or with this column that was marching to his relief, it might influence the judges who had misjudged him so.

There was plenty of excitement in their marching the next few days. The Americans had discovered the column by now, and knew that they were going to join Vincent, so the ships constantly landed parties who lay in ambush. The regiment never saw its enemies, there would be a quick spatter of shot from the green cover, a man or two would fall, but the angry bayonet charge that was the prompt answer of the British found nothing but leaves to use their steel upon; the woodsmen from Kentucky were too quick to be caught by these heavy footed new-comers to the world of lake and bush.

So they came to the bay where to-day our city of Hamilton stands. Near by, in June, 1813, was the village of Stoney Creek, a straggling street, outlined by orchards. Beyond rose Burlington Heights, with the raw earthworks and log ramparts of Vincent's entrenchments, and the battle-frayed flag of England floating above them.

Stoney Creek had a little Methodist church, the first Ferguson or Ned had seen in the new world. The needs of war had pressed it for a hospital, and from its doors a joyful crowd of bandaged men, Archy among them, greeted the relief force.

"We're glad to see you all right," said Archy. "Though we wasn't in no hurry to get relieved. We beat the Yankees sure on June sixth, and fought some too. Them trees show that, I guess."

The trees did, to the men who were now among the orchards—great branches broken and trunks scarred everywhere by bullets. On June sixth the enemy had located Vincent, and knowing he was without artillery and almost out of powder, they landed three thousand men, who camped that night in the orchards of Stoney Creek. In the morning they meant to attack, and with the help of their ship's guns, capture Vincent's army before the relief column with abundance of ammunition arrived.

"Blamed foolish of them Yankees," said Archy. "They oughter have piled everything they've got on Kingston, and picked us up any old time. Chasing after us like they are, makes me think of a man trying to cut a tree down by taking an axe to its branches. Kingston's the trunk. If it fell it would mean Upper Canada was cut off totally."

"We had fourteen hundred men," put in another man, "and Colonel Harvey who did some fighting in Egypt with Bonaparte—and learned to know how to do a few things too—wanted a night attack, as we had no powder. He led it, and it was hot and heavy while it lasted, but cold steel made the enemy glad to get back to their ships. They started banging away, but Harvey and his men were back on the Heights, and the enemy went back to get reinforcements."

Then Archy saw Ned, and called to him to know how he came there. "I was lost in the bush several times, sir," Ned answered, hoping he did not look as guilty as he felt. "At last I fell in with the relief column. I tried to find you when I left York."

"Awful bad habit, Ned, this getting lost in the bush. When I got in here and reported myself to General Vincent, he asked me why I hadn't stayed with Sheaffe and gone to Kingston. I says, 'My memory's awful bad, General, I couldn't for the life of me remember if Kingston was east or west, so I got here; I guess some folks can't just help forgetting things.' And he laughed, 'cause I'd come in with the Indian who brought the note from Sheaffe saying he was to go to Kingston, and so he knew I knew that he meant to 'forget' to obey it."

So Ned slipped back to his old place in Archy's company, and was rather startled to find himself raised to sergeant. He worked hard at his duties, but he was oddly silent, and seemed to shrink away from his friends—so the men who knew him best, Ferguson, Archy, and the keen-eyed Percy, thought.

It was a long summer of guerilla warfare rather than battle. The enemy, with somewhat unwise generalship, wasted their forces trying to crush the elusive British army at the Burlington end of the lake; it dividing, uniting, and disappearing, trying to give the enemy the impression at least treble its numbers.

"Play a waiting game," said Harvey, who with Fitzgibbons, was the most daring and popular of the leaders. "Keep the enemy in complete ignorance of your numbers and movements, and know everything about him." It was possible to do this because the men who defended, had the woods to fall back on. When attacked they retreated, while their Indians hung on the enemy's flanks if they tried to follow, keeping his men awake all night with war-whoops, and playing on their nerves. Then the invader would fall back on the settlements, where the few men, and every woman and child was a spy for their men in the bush. The Americans came and went in sulky desolate York. They held full possession of the Niagara district, the oldest settled and richest part of Upper Canada. There they kept their men in strict order hoping to make these obstinate Canadians realize they were friends, but not even a child could be coaxed to give a "Yankee" any information, even of the most harmless kind.

Laura Secord, in the Niagara village of St. Davids, whose militia husband was a prisoner of war, cooked in her kitchen for the American officers who had quartered themselves in her house, and overheard their plans to trap Fitzgibbons. She passed the sentry at her door with a pail to milk her cow—and instead plunged into the bush, and walked twenty miles, reaching the men she sought utterly exhausted, but with the news that made them able to ambush the enemy, and win the little battle of Beaver Dam, on June twenty-fourth.

And because Laura Secord did only what almost every woman in Upper Canada would have done in her place, the United States did not conquer Canada.

A month after Beaver Dam, a party of officers were dining at Stoney Creek, which was still Vincent's headquarters. They were the guests of Archy, who had risen in rank in the bush fighting, but had not improved in grammar. The men were unkempt-looking after their rough living, and lack of many of the appendages of civilization. Only Percy wore his patched and shabby garments with an uneradicable air of neatness. He and Archy were close friends now, probably because in all outside matters they were entirely unlike. The party ate from silver plate, and tin dishes, at a table formed by setting two shutters on three barrels. Their fare was roast beef and venison in abundance, with a little dark bread, and a mess of mixed greens. War was pinching Upper Canada hard, her crops would be very scanty, and the government had already bought all the flour to be found, paying the sometimes unwilling settlers twenty dollars a barrel, which was considerably above the market price. Bread was selling at forty cents a large loaf, and scanty rations of flour were doled out to the army, who had to live mainly on meat, the farmers naturally refusing to sell vegetables, fruit, or butter at any price, for they had the winter to look forward to. The Indians brought in berries and edible greens, and nobody starved.

Archy was looking doubtfully at the brew his servant was pouring into cups. "This here, gentlemen," he said, "is birch bark tea. I don't think its poison, and I was so sick of those herb drinks that I thought I'd try it. If you don't like it, call it a horror of war."

Desert—a pot of cooked fruit, small peaches and apples, was on the table, with a jug of whiskey, and Percy said to the host. "I trust you came by that fruit honestly. Ferguson is wearing himself out trying to head off three thousand irresponsible vagabonds from picking up green fruit that doesn't belong to them. I often feel I am the most virtuous man in the camp, for except when I dine out, I know I get nothing to eat but what is paid for."

"It's starch you mean to steal, if you hear of any," said Archy, laughing.

Percy sighed as he looked at the limp frills of his shirt. "That is the worst thing I have to endure," he said. "If I hear of starch I shall certainly wait till Ferguson is intent on some other criminal and go out and steal it myself. Isn't that Ned Edgar over there? He is certainly making a good record for himself, though he always looks to me as if he had something on his mind."

Ferguson thought the same, and bewildered that Ned seemed avoiding him, he met him that afternoon by the desecrated chapel, and Ned could not escape speaking to him. Ferguson looked sadly into the building, for the bunks for the sick round its walls had been made of broken up pulpit, seats, and communion table. So war had ordered.

"I feel with Habakkuk," Ferguson remarked, "grieved for the Church lest when her carved work and hedges are broken down she should suffer loss. But the breaking up of a church building like this does not matter if the members are strong in the faith. We are to have a meeting to-night in Father Williams' barn. He is that aged saint who leans on his staff and worships. We also need some candles, and though the good sister who owns this orchard has plenty, she is prejudiced against soldiers, so I want you to go to see her, and—"

"I will ask the lady for the candles," said Ned in a constrained voice, "but I may not be at your meeting, I may have duties."

He was off then, before the astonished Ferguson could answer him. Four years in the army had given the Methodist a thorough knowledge of the things that lead many young men astray, but Ned avoided the reckless set among his comrades, as much as he was now keeping away from his Methodist friends; and the little soldier felt utterly at a loss.

Meanwhile Ned had gone to the big farm house belonging to the lady who owned the candles. She was middle-aged and militant looking and she regarded Ned coldly. "The regulars are stealing my fruit whenever my back is turned," she said, "and the militia have taken eighty fence rails for firewood. Pray what do you want here? Tell me at once, and don't be saucy."

CHAPTER VIII.

How Ned Had Many Adventures, and Bee
Becomes a Woman.

Ned thought a man would have to be mad or very drunk before he could be saucy to such a lady, and he answered in his meekest voice, "We wanted to hold a prayer meeting, madam, and hoped you might be so good as to give us some candles."

"For the land's sake, a prayer meeting! Not but what you need them badly. But whoever is going to hold a prayer meeting? There isn't a chaplain of any sort here."

"We have a soldier preacher, madam, a Mr. Ferguson."

"What, not one of those soldiers?" Astonishment and unbelief were in the lady's tones.

"Yes, madam, he preaches very well too, and I hope you will come to hear him. He never steals apples or anything, for he is a Methodist. And while I admit he is a private in the ranks, still it doesn't do always to say 'Can any good come out of Nazareth?'"

She looked at him. His manner was certainly not what she would have looked for in a private soldier, and changing her attitude with feminine quickness, she said—"Come right in and sit down. Here's a pie right out of the oven and you must try it. Not hungry? Nonsense; men, especially soldiers, always are. Now, tell your Mr. Ferguson to call on me. If it isn't some trick of you boys I'll keep you in candles. I'm a Methodist myself, but its hard not to grow cold in religion when there's no church, and war's making everybody wild. My husband and three boys are all out with the militia—and they won't quit fighting while there's a Yankee in Canada. But it's hard on flesh and blood to see a farm like the one we had here going to wrack and ruin, without a man to do a hand's turn. But I shouldn't complain, my house is filled with officers, and they pay me well. And the cows, and the stuff the girls and me did get in, are doing splendid."

From the farm Ned went at once to Archy, to see if he couldn't be sent out again at once—to avoid meeting Ferguson—and found Percy there before him. "How'd you like to change into the regulars, Ned?" said Archy briskly. "I hate to lose you, for you're a kind of reliable—from that first hour when you were under fire at Humber Bay, you've been to be depended upon. But Captain Haslem's going with his company to try and steal some Yankee flour up Niagara way, and he'll take you, if you're willing, and its a good chance for you."

"You would have the rank of sergeant," said Percy, "and the position of 'Talk Man', as you call an Indian interpreter; for your captain says you studied the Indian dialects with your father last winter in York. Then we shall have no surgeon with us, and as Dr. Tam recommends you highly as an emergency one, I think you can be sure of getting a commission before six months are out."

Ned knew Ferguson had been assigned by Percy to duty with the commissariat and transport, which would keep him in Stoney Creek, so he thanked his friends and accepted. He set off that same day, one of seventy-five white men, with a dozen Indian scouts.

They reached the Niagara district, and lay low in the great forest that filled the back of the fertile peninsula between the lakes Erie and Ontario. Before them was the garden land of Canada, guarded by forts Erie and George, on the upper and lower lakes—and both alas held by the triumphant enemy—fronted by the deep gorge of the wild Niagara River. For the first time Ned heard the far-off awful roar of the great falls, and in a sense he was afraid, for he understood why the Indians said it was the voice of God.

But he had little time to think of the mysterious poetry of the Great Waters. The party were marching silently across Niagara in the night. Tiny lights, placed by brave women in farmhouse windows, told Percy all he needed to know, and so they crept down to the shore by Fort Erie, and seizing boats, put out, as a sentry challenged them.

"Provision boats from Buffalo," Percy answered instantly, and so they passed.

Across Niagara River twinkled the lights of Buffalo and Black Rock, and before them three ships laden with stores, loomed up dark as they lay at anchor. The first was boarded with a savage rush of excited men. In five minutes she was mastered, and scudding out into Erie, keeping the other ships between her and the guns of the fort till she was out of range.

At dawn the prize was lying in a little bay. She had landed part of the men, including Ned and the Indians, with a good portion of her cargo of flour, when the 10-gun "Hunter", one of the British war-fleet on Erie, came up. She was to take the boat and part of the stores to Detroit, that one bit of American soil to which Canada was clinging. She felt that she was not quite conquered while she held it, though her garrison there were very short of food.