LAURA SECORD:

LAURA SECORD:

THE HEROINE OF THE WAR OF 1812.¹

—————

ACT 1.

SCENE I.—Queenston. A farmhouse.

John Penn, a Quaker, is seated on a chair tilted against the wall. Mr.

     Quaker. THE midnight sky, set thick with shining points,
Hung watchingly, while from a band of gloom
That belted in the gloomier woods, stole forth
Foreshortened forms of grosser shade, all barred
With lines of denser blackness, dexter-borne.

Rank after rank, they came, out of the dark,
So silently no pebble crunched beneath
Their feet more sharp than did a woodchuck stir.
And so came on the foe all stealthily,
And found their guns a-limber, fires ablaze,

And men in calm repose.
                                    With bay’nets fixed
The section in advance fell on the camp,
And killed the first two sentries, whose sharp cries
Alarmed a third, who fired, and firing, fled.
This roused the guard, but “Forward!” was the word,

And on we rushed, slaying fully many a man
Who woke not in this world.
                                    The ’larum given, [page 11]
A-sudden rose such hubbub and confusion
As is made by belching earthquake. Waked from sleep,
Men stumbled over men, and angry cries

Resounded. Surprised, yet blenching not,
Muskets were seized and shots at random fired
E’en as they fled. Yet rallied they when ours,
At word from Harvey, fell into line,
And stood, right ’mid the fires, to flint their locks—

An awful moment !—
As amid raging storms the warring heaven
Falls sudden silent, and concentrates force
To launch some scathing bolt upon the earth,
So hung the foe, hid in portentous gloom,

While in the lurid light ours halted. Quick,
Red volcanic fire burst from their lines
And mowed us where we stood!
Full many a trembling hand that set a flint
Fell lifeless ere it clicked: yet silent all—

Save groans of wounded—till our rods struck home;
Then, flashing fire for fire, forward we rushed
And scattered them like chaff before the wind.
The King’s Own turned their left; the Forty-ninth,
At point of bay’net, pushed the charge, and took

Their guns, they fighting valiantly, but wild,
Having no rallying point, their leaders both
Lying the while all snug at Jemmy Gap’s.
And so the men gave in at last, and fled,
And Stony Creek was ours.²

     Mr. Secord. Brave Harvey! Gallantly planned and carried.
The stroke is good, the consequences better.
Cooped as he is in George, the foe will lack
His forage, and perforce must eat his stores;
For Yeo holds the lake, and on the land

His range is scarce beyond his guns. And more,
He is the less by these of men to move
On salient points, and long as we hold firm [page 12]
At Erie, Burlington, and Stony Creek,
He’s like the wretched bird, he “can’t get out.”

     Mrs. Secord. You speak, friend Penn,³ as if you saw the fight,
Not like a simple bearer of the news.
     Quaker. Why, so I did.
     Mrs. Secord. You did! Pray tell us how it was;
For ever have I heard that Quakers shunned

The sight of blood.
     Quaker. None more than I.
Yet innate forces sometimes tell o’er use
Against our will. But this was how it happed:
Thou seest, Mistress Secord, I’d a load

Of sound potatoes, that I thought to take
To Vincent’s camp, but on the way I met
A British officer, who challenged me; saith he,
“Friend, whither bound?” “Up to the Heights,” say I,
“To sell my wares.” “Better,” saith he,

“Go to the Yankee camp; they’ll pay a price
Just double ours, for we are short of cash.”
“I’ll risk the pay,” say I, “for British troops;
Nay, if we’re poor, I can afford the load,
A p’rhaps another, for my country’s good.”

“And say’st thou so, my Quaker! Yet,” saith he,
“I hear you Quakers will not strike a blow
To guard your country’s rights, nor yet your own.”
“No, but we’ll hold the stakes,” cried I. He laughed.
“Can’t you do more, my friend?” quoth he, “I need

A closer knowledge of the Yankee camp:
How strong it is, and how it lies.  A brush
Is imminent, and one must win, you know
Shall they?”
His manner was so earnest that, before

I knew, I cried, “Not if I know it, man!”
With a bright smile he answered me, “There spoke
A Briton.” Then he directed me
How I might sell my load, what I should mark, [page 13]
And when report to him my observations.

So, after dusk, I met him once again,
And told him all I knew. It pleased him much.
Warmly he shook my hand. “I am,” saith he,
“Lieutenant-Colonel Harvey. Should it hap
That I can ever serve you, let me know.”

     Mrs. Secord. And then you stayed to see the end of it?
     Quaker. Mistress, I did. Somewhat against my creed,
I freely own; for what should I, a Quaker,
E’er have to do with soldiers, men of blood!
I mean no slight to you, James.

     Mr. Secord (laughing). No, no! go on.
     Quaker. Well, when I thought how tired poor Dobbin was,
How late the hour, and that ’twould be a week
Before I’d hear how Harvey sped that night,
I thought I’d stay and see the matter out;

The more, because I kind o’ felt as if
Whatever happed I’d had a hand in it.
     Mrs. Secord. And pray where did you hide? for hide you must,
So near the Yankee lines.
     Quaker. It wasn’t hard to do; I knew the ground,

Being a hired boy on that very farm,
Now Jemmy Gap’s. There was an elm, where once
I used to sit and watch for chipmunks, that I clomb,
And from its shade could see the Yankee camp,
Its straggling line, its fires, its careless watch;

And from the first I knew the fight was ours,
If Harvey struck that night.
     Mr. Secord. Ha! ha! friend John, thine is a soldier’s brain
Beneath that Quaker hat.
     Quaker (in some embarrassment, rising). No, no, I am a man

The very name of war. I must be gone.
(To Mrs. Secord.) My woman longs to see thee, Mistress.
Good-bye to all.
     The Little Girls (rising). Good-bye, sir. [page 14]
     Mrs. Secord. Good-bye, John.

’Twould please me much to see my friend again,
But war blots out the sweet amenities
Of life. Give her my love.
     Quaker. I will.
     Mr. Secord (rising and taking his crutch). I’ll walk a piece with

And see you past the lines.

     Quaker. That’s right, ’twill do thee good:
Thy wounds have left thee like an ailing girl,
So poor and pale.

[Exeunt Quaker and MR. SECORD.

Charlotte. Oh, dear, I wish I were a man, to fight

In such brave times as these!

     Mary. Were wishing aught
Soon should another sword strike for the King,
And those dear rights now rudely overlooked.
     Mrs. Secord. My child?

     Mary. Oh naught, mamma, save the old tale: no nook
That’s not invaded, even one’s books
Borrowed without one’s leave. I hate it all!
     Mrs. Secord. We must be patient, dear, it cannot last.
     Harriet. Oh, if we girls were boys, or Charles a man!

     Mrs. Secord. Poor baby Charles! See, he’s asleep; and now,
Dear girls, seeing we cannot fight, we’ll pray
That peace may come again, for strife and blood,
Though wisely spent, are taxes hard to pay.
But come, ’tis late! See Charlie’s dropt asleep;

Sing first your evening hymn,⁴ and then to bed.
I’ll lay the darling down.

Exit MRS. SECORD, with the child in her arms.

     Charlotte. You start it, Mary. [page 15]
     Children sing—

HYMN.

       Softly as falls the evening shade,
       On our bowed heads Thy hands be laid;

       Surely as fades the parting light,
       Our sleep be safe and sweet to-night.
                      Calmly, securely, may we rest,
                      As on a tender father’s breast.

       Let War’s black pinions soar away,

       And dove-like Peace resume her sway,
       Our King, our country, be Thy care,
       Nor ever fail of childhood’s prayer.
                      Calmly, securely, may we rest,
                      As on a tender father’s breast.

After a weary day the evening falls
With gentle benison of peace and rest.
The deep’ning dusk draws, like a curtain, round,
And gives the soul a twilight of its own;
A soft, sweet time, full of refreshing dews,

And subtle essences of memory
And reflection. O gentle peace, when—

Enter PETE,⁵ putting his head in at the door.

     Pete. O, mistis! Heh, mistis!
     Mrs. Secord. What now, Pete?
     Pete. Oh, mistis, dat yar sergeant ossifer—

Dat sassy un what call me “Woolly-bear.”
An’ kick my shin, he holler ’crass to me:—
“You, Pete, jes’ you go in, an’ tell Ma’am Secord
I’se comin’ in ter supper wiv some frens.”
He did jes’ so—a sassy scamp.

     Mrs. Secord. To-night? At this hour?
     Pete. Yes, mistis; jes’, jes’ now. I done tell Flos [page 16]
Ter put her bes’ leg fus’, fer I mus’ go
An’ ten’ dat poo’, sick hoss.
     Mrs. Secord. Nay, you’ll do nothing of the kind! You’ll stay

And wait upon these men. I’ll not have Flos
Left single-handed by your cowardice.
     Pete. I aint a coward—ef I hed a club;
Dat poo’ sick hoss—
     Mrs. Secord. Nonsense! Go call me Flos, and see you play no

     Pete. No, mistis, no; no tricks. [Aside. Ef I’d a club!]
     He calls from the door: Flos! Flos! Ma’am Secord wants ye.
Mrs. Secord (spreading a cloth upon the table). God help us if                   these men much longer live
Upon our failing stores.

Enter FLOS.

What have you got to feed these fellows, Flos?

     Flos. De mistis knows it aint much, pas’ noo bread,
An’ two—three pies. I’ve sot some bacon sisslin’,
An’ put some taties on when Pete done tole me.
     Pete. Give ’em de cider, mistis, an’ some beer,
And let ’em drink ’em drunk till mas’r come

An’ tell me kick ’em out.
     Flos. You!—jes’ hol’ yer sassy tongue.

[Footsteps are heard without.

     Pete. Dat’s um. Dey’s comin’. Dat poo’, sick hoss—

[He makes for the door.

     Mrs. Secord. You, Pete, come back and lay this cloth,
And wait at table properly with Flos.

     Sergeant (striking Pete on the head with his cane). That’s for              your ugly phiz and impudence.

[Exit PETE, howling.

(To Mrs. Secord.) Your slaves are saucy, Mistress Secord.
     Mrs. Secord. Well, sir!
     Sergeant. None of my business, eh? Well, ’tis sometimes,
You see. You got my message: what’s to eat? [page 17]

     Mrs. Secord. My children’s food, sir. This nor post-house is,
Nor inn, to take your orders.

[Flos and PETE enter, carrying dishes.

     Sergeant. O, bless you, we don’t order; we command.
Here, men, sit down.

[He seats himself at the head of the table, and the others take their places, some of them greeting MRS. SECORD with a salute of respect.

Boy, fill those jugs. You girl,

Set that dish down by me, and hast with more.
Bacon’s poor stuff when lamb and mint ’s in season.
Why don’t you kill that lamb, Ma’am Secord?
     Mrs. Secord. ’Tis a child’s pet.
     Sergeant. O, pets be hanged!

[Exit MRS. SECORD.

     Corporal. Poor thing! I’m sure none of us want the lamb.
     A Private. We’ll have it, though, and more, if Bœrstler—⁶
     Corporal. Hold your tongue, you—
     Second Private (drinking). Here’s good luck, my boys, to that              surprise—
     Corporal (aside). Fool!

     Sergeant (drinking). Here’s to to-morrow and a cloudy night.
Fill all your glasses, boys.

———

SCENE 3.—Mrs. Secord’s bedroom. She is walking up and down in much agitation.

Enter MR. SECORD.

     Mrs. Secord (springing to meet him). Oh, James, where have              you been?
     Mr. Secord. I did but ramble through the pasture, dear,
And round the orchard. ’Twas so sweet and still.
Save for the echo of the sentry’s tread
O’er the hard road, it might have been old times.

But—but—you’re agitated, dear; what’s wrong?
I see our unasked visitors were here.
Was that—? [page 18]
     Mrs. Secord. Not that; yet that. Oh, James, I scarce can bear
The stormy swell that surges o’er my heart,

Awaked by what they have revealed this night.
     Mr. Secord. Dear wife, what is’t?
     Mrs. Secord. Oh, sit you down and rest, for you will need
All strength you may command to hear me tell.

[Mr. Secord sits down, his wife by him.

That saucy fellow, Winter, and a guard

Came and demanded supper; and, of course,
They had to get it. Pete and Flos I left
To wait on them, but soon they sent them off,
Their jugs supplied,—and fell a-talking, loud,
As in defiance, of some private plan

To make the British wince.⁷ Word followed word,
Till I, who could not help but hear their gibes,
Suspected mischief, and, listening, learned the whole.
To-morrow night a large detachment leaves
Fort George for Beaver Dam. Five hundred men,

With some dragoons, artillery, and a train
Of baggage-waggons, under Bœstler, go
To fall upon Fitzgibbon by surprise,
Capture the stores, and pay for Stony Creek.
     Mr. Secord. My God! and here am I, a paroled cripple!

Oh, Canada, my chosen country! Now—
Is’t now, in this thy dearest strait, I fail?
I, who for thee would pour my blood with joy—
Would give my life for thy prosperity—
Must I stand by, and see thy foes prevail

Without one thrust?

[In his agitation he rises

     Mrs. Secord. Oh, calm thee, dear; thy strength is all to me.
Fitzgibbon shall be warned, or aid be sent.
     Mr. Secord. But how, wife? how? Let this attempt succeed,
As well it may, and vain last year’s success;

In vain fell Brock: in vain was Queenston fought:
In vain we pour out blood and gold in streams: [page 19]
For Dearborn then may push his heavy force
Along the lakes, with long odds in his favour.
And I, unhappy wretch, in such a strait

Am here, unfit for service. Thirty men
Are all Fitzgibbon has to guard the stores
And keep a road ’twixt Bisshopp and De Haren.
Those stores, that road, would give the Yankee all.
     Mrs. Secord. Why, be content now, dear. Had we not heard,

This plot might have passed on to its dire end,
Like the pale owl that noiseless cleaves the dark,
And, on its dreaming prey, swoops with fell claw.
     Mr. Secord. What better is it?
     Mrs. Secord. This; that myself will go to Beaver Dam,

And warn Fitzgibbon: there is yet a day.
     Mr. Secord. Thou! thou take a task at which a man might                        shrink?
No, no, dear wife! Not so.
     Mrs. Secord. Ay, prithee, let me go;
’Tis not so far. And I can pass unharmed

Where you would be made prisoner, or worse.
They’ll not hurt me—my sex is my protection.
     Mr. Secord. Oh, not in times like these. Let them suspect
A shadow wrong, and neither sex, nor tears,
Nor tenderness would save thy fate.

     Mrs. Secord. Fear not for me. I’ll be for once so wise
The sentries shall e’en put me on my way.
Once past the lines, the dove is not more swift
Nor sure to find her distant home than I
To reach Fitzgibbon. Say I may go.

     Mr. Secord (putting his arm round her tenderly). How can I let              thee go? Thy tender feet
Would bleed ere half the way was done. Thy strength
Would fail ’twixt the rough road and summer heat,
And in some gloomy depth, faint and alone,
Thou would’st lie down to die. Or, chased and hurt

By wolf or catamount, thy task undone, [page 20]
Thy precious life would then be thrown away.
I cannot let thee go.
     Mrs. Secord. Not thrown away! Nay, say not that, dear James.
No life is thrown away that’s spent in doing duty.

But why raise up these phantoms of dismay?
I did not so when, at our country’s call,
You leapt to answer. Said I one word
To keep you back? and yet my risk was greater
Then than now—a woman left with children

On a frontier farm, where yelling savages,
Urged on, or led, by renegades, might burn,
And kill, and outrage with impunity
Under the name of war. Yet I blenched not,
But helped you clean your musket, clasped your belt,

And sent you forth, with many a cheery word.
Did I not so?
     Mr. Secord. Thou didst indeed, dear wife, thou didst.
But yet,—
I cannot let thee go, my darling.

Did I not promise in our marriage vow,
And to thy mother, to guard thee as myself.
     Mrs. Secord. And so you will if now you let me go.
For you would go yourself, without a word
Of parley, were you able; leaving me

The while in His good hands; not doubting once
But I was willing. Leave me there now, James,
And let me go; it is our country calls.
     Mr. Secord. Ah, dearest wife, thou dost not realize
All my deep promise, “guard thee as myself?”

I meant to guard thee doubly, trebly more.
     Mrs. Secord. There you were wrong. The law says “as thyself
Though shalt regard thy neighbour.”
     Mr. Secord. My neighbour! Then is that all that thou art
To me, thy husband? Shame! thou lovest me not.

My neighbour! [page 21]
      Mrs. Secord. Why now, fond ingrate! What saith the Book?
“THE GOOD, with all thy soul and mind and strength;
Thy neighbour as thyself.” Thou must not love
Thyself, nor me, as thou must love the Good.

Therefore, I am thy neighbour; loved as thyself:
And as thyself wouldst go to warn Fitzgibbon
If thou wert able, so I, being able,
Thou must let me go—thy other self.
Pray let me go!

     Mr. Secord (after a pause). Thou shalt, dear wife, thou shalt. I’ll              say no more.
Thy courage meets the occasion. Hope shall be
My standard-bearer, and put to shame
The cohorts black anxiety calls up.
But how shall I explain to prying folks

Thine absence?
     Mrs. Secord. Say I am gone to see my brother,
’Tis known he’s sick; and if I venture now
’Twill serve to make the plot seem still secure.
I must start early.

     Mr. Secord. Yet not too soon, lest ill surmise
Aroused by guilty conscience doubt thy aim.
     Mrs. Secord. That’s true.
Yet at this time of year do travellers start
Almost at dawn to avoid the midday heats.

Tell not the children whither I am bound;
Poor darlings! Soon enough anxiety
Will fall upon them; ’tis the heritage
Of all; high, low, rich, poor; he chiefly blest
Who travels farthest ere he meets the foe.

There’s much to do to leave the household straight,
I’ll not retire to-night.
     Mr. Secord. Oh, yes, dear wife, thou shalt not spend thy                           strength
On household duties, for thou’lt need it all
Ere thy long task be done. O, but I fear— [page 22]

     Mrs. Secord (quickly). Fear nothing!
Trust heaven and do your best, is wiser.
Should I meet harm, ’twill be in doing duty:
Fail I shall not!
     Mr. Secord. Retire, dear wife, and rest; I’ll watch the hours

Beside thee.
     Mrs. Secord. No need to watch me, James, I shall awake.
[Aside. And yet perhaps ’tis best.
If he wake now he’ll sleep to-morrow
Perforce of nature; and banish thus

Some hours of sad anxiety.]
     Mr. Secord. I’d better watch.
     Mrs. Secord. Well then, to please you! But call me on the turn
Of night, lest I should lose an hour or two
Of cooler travel.

———

SCENE 4—Daybreak on the 23rd June, 1813.

The porch of Mr. Secord’s farmhouse. A garden path, with a gate that opens on to the high road from Newark to Twelve-Mile Creek.

Enter JAMES SECORD and his wife.

     Mr. Secord. Heaven speed thee, then, dear wife. I’ll try to bear
The dreadful pangs of helplessness and dread
With calm demeanour, if a bursting heart.
     Mrs. Secord. Then will you taste a woman’s common lot
In times of straight, while I essay man’s rôle

Of fierce activity. We will compare
When I return. Now, fare-thee-well, my husband.

     Mrs. Secord. Why do you stop me?
     Sentry. Where is your pass?
You know that none may take the road without one.

     Mrs. Secord. But surely I may go to milk my cow,
Yonder she is

[A cow is seen in the clearing

                        She’s wandered in the night.
I’ll drive her back again, poor thing,
She likes new pasture best, as well she may.
     Sentry. Keep you your kine at home, you’ve land enough.

     Mrs. Secord. Why, that’s our land, and those our barns and              sheds.
     Sentry. Well, pass!

[He suddenly observes the flowers.

But where’s your milking pail?
I guess the bunch of flowers is for the cow.
     Mrs. Secord (gently). You are too rough! The pinks weep

Upon my hand to chide you. There, take them;

[She offers him the flowers

And let their fragrance teach you courtesy,
At least to women. You can watch me.
     Sentry. Madam, suspicion blunts politeness. Pass.
I’ll take your flowers, and thank you, too;

’Tis long since that I saw their fellows in
The old folks’ garden.

     Mrs. Secord (aside). Could I but get her out of sight, I’d drive
The creature round the other way, and go
My own. Pray Heaven the sentry watch me not

Too closely; his manner roused my fears.

[She waves her hand at the cow, which moves on.

Co’ boss! co’ boss. Sh! Haste thee, poor cow; [page 24]
Fly from me! though never didst thou yet;
Nor should’st do now, but for the stake I play.

[Both disappear in the bush.

     Sentry (apostrophising the disappearing “enemy”). Well,

The creature wouldn’t run you such a race.
It serves you right! The cows my Anna milks,
Come at her call, like chickens. O, sweet voice,
When shall I hear you next? Even as I pace
With measured step this hot and dusty road,

The soft June breezes take your tones, and call,
“Come, Henry, come.” Would that I could!
Would I had never joined!
But my hot blood o’ermastered my cool sense,
Nor let me see that always is not bought

Honour by arms, but often dire disgrace.
For so it is, as now I clearly see,
We let the animal within remain
Unbroke, till neither gyve nor gear will serve
To steady him, only a knock-down blow.

Had I, and others, too, within the ranks,
Haltered our coltish blood, we should have found
That hate to England, not our country’s name
And weal, impelled mad Madison upon this war;
And shut the mouths of thousand higher men

Than he.⁸
                                    It is a lesson may I learn
So as to ne’er forget, that in the heat of words
Sparks oft are struck that should be straightway quenched
In cool reflection; not enlarged and fed
With passionate tinder, till a flame is blown

That reaches past our bonds, and leaves behind
Black, sullen stumps where once the green trees grew.
If honour’s what we want, there’s room enough
For that, and wild adventure, too, in the West,
At half the cost of war, in opening up

A road shall reach the great Pacific.⁹
(A step). Ha! Who goes there?

———

SCENE 5.—The Road at the foot of QueenstonHeights.

Of sweeter music, in your loving tones,
My darlings, than e’er was drawn from harp
The best attuned, by wandering Æolus,
Then let my memory, like some fond relic laid
In musk and lavender, softly exhale

A thousand tender thoughts to soothe and bless;
And let my love hide in your heart of hearts,
And with ethereal touch control your lives,
Till in that better home we meet again.

Guard them and me, O Heaven.

[She resumes her journey, but still gazes in the direction of the Heights.

And Brock! McDonnell! Dennis!¹⁰
All ye hero band, who fell on yonder Heights!
If I should fall, give me a place among ye,
And a name will be my children’s pride,
For all—my all—I risk, as ye, to save

My country.

[Exit. [page 26]

     Widow. ’Tis pitiful to see one’s land go waste
For want of labour, and the summer days,
So rich in blessing, spend their fruitful force
On barren furrows. And then to think
That over both the Provinces it is the same,—

No men to till the land, because the war
Needs every one. God knows how we shall feed
Next year: small crop, small grist,—a double loss
To me. The times are anxious.
(To Sergeant Mosier.) Have you news?

     Sergeant. Not much, ma’am, all is pretty quiet still
Since Harvey struck them dumb at Stony Creek.
Along the Lake bold Yeo holds them fast,
And, Erie-way, Bisshopp and Evans back him.¹³
Thus stand we now; but Proctor’s all too slow.

O had we Brock again, bold, wise, and prompt,
That foreign rag that floats o’er Newark’s spires
Would soon go down, and England’s ensign up.
     Widow. Ah, was he not a man! and yet so sweet,
So courteous, and so gentle.

     Babette. Ah, oui, madame.
So kind! not one rough word he ever had,
The Général, but bow so low, “Merci, Babette,”
For glass of milk, et petit chose comme ça.
Ah, long ago it must be he was French:

Some grand seigneur, sans doute, in Guernsey then.
Ah the brave man, madame, ce hero la!
     Widow. Yes, brave indeed, Babette, but English, English.
Oh, bravery, good girl, is born of noble hearts,
And calls the world its country, and its sex

Humanity. [page 27]
     Babette. Madame?
     Widow. You do not understand me, no; but you
Were very brave and noble-hearted when
You faced the wolf that scented the young lambs.

     Babette. Brave! Moi! Madame is kind to say it so.
But bravery of women—what is that
To bravery of man?
     Tom. An’ that’s just what I said to Hatty, mother,
When she declared that Aunty Laura was

As brave as soldiers, ’cause she went an’ fetched
Poor Uncle James from off the battlefield
After the fight was over. That wasn’t much!
     Widow. You’re but an ignorant little boy, my son,
But might be wiser were you not so pert.

     Sergeant. I heard not that before, ma’am.
     Widow. Did you not?
’Tis very true. Upon that dreadful day,
After Brock fell, and in the second fight,
When with the Lincoln men and Forty-first

Sheaffe led the attack, poor Captain Secord dropped,
Shot, leg and shoulder, and bleeding there he lay,
With numbers more, when evening fell; for means
Were small to deal with wounded men, and all,
Soldiers and citizens, were spent and worn

With cruel trials. So when she learned he lay
Among the wounded, his young wife took up
A lantern in her hand, and searched the field—
Whence sobs and groans and cries rose up to heaven
And paled the tearful stars—until she found

The man she loved, not sure that life remained.
Then binding him as best she might, she bore,
With some kind aid, the fainting body home,—
If home it could be called where rabid hate
Had spent its lawless rage in deeds of spite;

Where walls and roof were torn with many balls,
And shelter scarce was found.
                                    That very night, [page 28]
Distrustful lest the foe, repulsed and wild,
Should launch again his heavier forces o’er
The flood, she moved her terror-stricken girls—

Four tender creatures—and her infant boy,
Her wounded husband and her two young slaves,
’Neath cover of thick darkness to the farm,
A mile beyond: a feat even for a man.
And then she set her woman’s wit and love

To the long task of nursing back to health
Her husband, much exhaust through loss of blood,
And all the angry heat of gunshot wounds.
But James will never be himself again
Despite her care.

     Sergeant. ’Twas well and bravely done.
Yet oft I think the women of these days
Degenerate to those I knew in youth.
     Widow. You’re hasty, Sergeant, already hath this war
Shown many a young and delicate woman

A very hero for her hero’s sake;
Nay, more, for others’. She, our neighbour there
At Queenston,¹⁴ who when our troops stood still,
Weary and breathless, took her young babe,
Her husband under arms among the rest,

And cooked and carried for them on the field:
Was she not one in whom the heroic blood
Ran thick and strong as e’er in times gone by?
O Canada, thy soil is broadcast strown
With noble deeds: a plague on him, I say,

Who follows with worse seed!

     Sergeant. Well, mistress, p’rhaps you’re right; old folks aye think
Old times the best; but now your words recall
The name of one, the bravest of her sex [page 29]
So far as e’er I saw, save, p’rhaps, the Baroness.¹⁵

Tender of frame, most gentle, softly raised,
And young, the Lady Harriet Acland¹⁶ shared,
With other dames whose husbands held commands,
The rough campaign of ’Seventy-six.
But her lot fell so heavy, and withal

She showed such spirit, cheerfulness, and love,
Her name became a watchword in the ranks.
     Widow. And what about her, Sergeant?
     Sergeant. Well, mistress, as you ask I’ll tell the tale:
She was the wife of Major John Dyke-Acland,

An officer of Grenadiers, then joined
To Highland Frazer’s arm of Burgoyne’s troops.
At Chamblée he was wounded. Leaving the Fort,
His wife crossed lake and land, by means so rough
As tried the strength of men, to nurse him.

Recovered; next he fought Ticonderoga,
And there was badly wounded. Lake Champlain
She traversed to his aid in just a batteau.
No sooner was he better, than again
He joined his men, always the first to move,

And so alert their situation was,
That all slept in their clothes. In such a time
The Major’s tent took fire, and he, that night,
But for a sergeant’s care, who dragged him out,
Had lost his life. Twice saved he was;

For thinking that his wife still lay within,
Burning to death, he broke away,
And plunged into the fiery mass. But she,
Scarce half awake, had crept from out the tent,
And gained her feet in time to see him rush

In search of her—a shuddering sight to one
Loving and loved so well. But luckily,
Both then were saved. She also shared the march
That followed up the foe, action impending
At every step; and when the fight began,

Though sheltered somewhat, heard all the din, [page 30]
The roar of guns, and bursting shells, and saw
The hellish fire belch forth, knowing the while
Her husband foremost in the dreadful fray.
Nay, more; her hut was all the shelter given

To dress the wounded first; so her kind eyes
Were forced to witness sights of ghastly sort,
Such as turn surgeons faint; nor she alone,
Three other ladies shared her anxious care:
But she was spared the grief they knew too soon,

Her husband being safe.
                                    But when Burgoyne
At Saratoga lost the bloody day,
The Major came not back—a prisoner he,
And desp’rate wounded. After anxiety
So stringent and prolonged, it seemed too much

To hope the lady could support such sting
And depth of woe, yet drooped she not; but rose
And prayed of Burgoyne, should his plans allow,
To let her pass into the hostile camp,
There to beseech for leave to tend her husband.

Full pitifully Burgoyne granted her
The boon she asked, though loath to let her go;
For she had passed hours in the drenching rain,
Sleepless and hungry; nor had he e’en a cup
Of grateful wine to offer. He knew

Her danger, too, as she did,—that she might fall
In cruel hands; or, in the dead of night
Approaching to the lines, be fired on.
Yet yielding to her prayer, he let her go,
Giving her all he could, letters to Gates,

And for her use an open boat.
Thus she set forth, with Chaplain Brudenell
For escort, her maid, and the poor Major’s man—
Thus was she rowed adown the darkling stream.
Night fell before they reached the enemy’s posts,

And all in vain they raised the flag of truce,
The sentry would not even let them land, [page 31]
But kept them there, all in the dark and cold,
Threatening to fire upon them if they stirred
Before the break of day. Poor lady! Sad

Were her forebodings through those darksome hours,
And wearily her soft maternal frame
Bore such great strain. But as the dark
Grows thickest ere the light appears, so she
Found better treatment when the morning broke.

With manly courtesy, proud Gates allowed
Her wifely claim, and gave her all she asked.
     Widow. Could he do less! Yes, Sergeant, I’ll allow
Old times show tender women bold and brave
For those they love, and ’twill be ever so.

And yet I hold that woman braver still
Who sacrifices all she loves to serve
The public weal.
     Sergeant. And was there ever one?
     Widow. Oh, yes—

Enter MRS. SECORD.

Why, Laura! Now you’re just too late
To have your breakfast with us. But sit down.
(She calls.) Babette! Babette!

Enter BABETTE.

Haste, girl, and make fresh tea,
Boil a new egg, and fry a bit of ham,

And bring a batch-cake from the oven; they’re done
By this.

[Exit BABETTE.

(To Mrs. Secord.) Take off your things, my dear;
You’ve come to stay a day or two with Charles,
Of course. He’ll be awake just now. He’s weak,

But better. How got you leave to come?

[SERGEANT GEORGE is leaving the kitchen.

Stay, Sergeant, you should know James Secord’s wife,
Poor Charles’s sister. [page 32]
(To Mrs. Secord.) Laura, this is a friend
You’ve heard us speak of, Sergeant George Mosier,

My father’s crony, and poor Stephen’s, too.
     Mrs. Secord (curtesying). I’m glad to meet you, sir.
     Sergeant (bowing low). Your servant, madam,
I hope your gallant husband is recovered.
     Mrs. Secord. I thank you, sir, his wound, but not his strength,

And still his arm is crippled.
     Sergeant. A badge of honour, madam, like to mine,

[He points to his empty sleeve.

Enter BABETTE with tray.

[Exit SERGEANT GEORGE.

     Widow. That’s right, girl, set it here. (To Mrs. Secord.) Come             eat a bit.
That ham is very nice, ’tis Gloucester fed,
And cured—malt-coombs, you know, so very sweet.

(To Babette.) Mind thou the oven, lass, I’ve pies to bake,
And then a brisket.

[Exit BABETTE.

(To Mrs. Secord.) I thought you fast
Within the lines: how got you leave to come?
     Mrs. Secord. I got no leave; three several sentries I,

With words of guile, have passed, and still I fear
My ultimate success. ’Tis not to see
Poor Charles I came, but to go further on
To Beaver Dam, and warn Fitzgibbon there
Of a foul plot to take him by surprise

This very night. We found it out last eve,
But in his state poor James was helpless,
So I go instead.
     Widow. You go to Beaver Dam! Nineteen long miles
On hot and dusty roads, and all alone!

You can’t, some other must.
     Mrs. Secord. I must, no other can. The time is short,
And through the virgin woods my way doth lie,
For should those sentries meet, or all report [page 33]
I passed their bounds, suspicion would be waked,

And then what hue and cry!
     Widow. The woods! and are you crazed? You cannot go!
The woods are full of creatures wild and fierce,
And wolves prowl round about. No path is blazed,
No underbrush is cleared, no clue exists

Of any kind to guide your feet. A man
Could scarce get through, how then shall you?
     Mrs. Secord. I have a Guide in Heaven. This task is come
To me without my seeking. If no word
Reaches Fitzgibbon ere that murderous horde

Be on him, how shall he save himself?
And if defeat he meets, then farewell all
Our homes and hopes, our liberties and lives.
     Widow. Oh, dear! oh, dear! and must you risk your life,
Your precious life? Think of it, Laura, yet:

Soldiers expect to fight; and keep strict watch
Against surprise. Think of your little girls,
Should they be left without a mother’s care;
Your duty is to them, and surely not
In tasks like this. You go to risk your life

As if you had a right, and thereby leave
Those who to you owe theirs, unpitied,
Desolate. You’ve suffered now enough
With all you’ve lost, and James a cripple, too,
What will the children do should they lose you

Just when their youthful charms require your care?
They’ll blame you, Laura, when they’re old enough
To judge what’s right.
     Mrs. Secord.           I do not fear it.
Children can see the right at one quick glance,
For, unobscured by self or prejudice,

They mark the aim, and not the sacrifice
Entailed.
     Widow. Did James consent to have you go?
     Mrs. Secord. Not till he found there was no other way;
He fretted much to think he could not go. [page 34]

     Widow. I’m sure he did. A man may undergo
A forced fatigue, and take no lasting hurt,
But not a woman. And you so frail—
It is your life you risk. I sent my lads,
Expecting them to run the chance of war,

And these you go to warn do but the same.
     Mrs. Secord. You see it wrong; chances of war to those
Would murder be to these, and on my soul,
Because I knew their risk, and warned them not.
You’ll think I’m right when tramp of armed men,

And rumble of the guns disturb you in your sleep.
Then, in the calmer judgment night-time brings,
You’d be the first to blame the selfish care
That left a little band of thirty men
A prey to near six hundred.

     Widow. Just the old story! Six hundred—it’s disgraceful!
Why, were they tailors—nine to make a man—
’Tis more than two to one. Oh, you must go.
     Mrs. Secord. I knew you’d say so when you came to think:
It was your love to me that masked your judgment.

I’ll go and see poor Charles, but shall not say
My real errand, ’twould excite him so.

[Exit MRS. SECORD.

     Widow. Poor Laura! Would to God I knew some way
To lighten her of such a task as this.

     Sergeant. Is it too early for the invalid?

The lads are here, and full of ardour.
     Widow. Oh, no, his sister’s with him.

[Exit SERGEANT.
[A bugle is heard sounding the assembly.

     Mrs. Secord. What’s that! What’s that!
     Widow. I should have warned you, dear,
But don’t be scared, its Sergeant George’s boys.

He’s gathered quite a company of lads [page35]
From round about, with every match-lock, gun,
Or fowling-piece the lads could find, and drills
Them regularly every second morn.
He calls ’em “Young St. David’s Yeoman Guard,”

Their horses, “shankses naigie.” Look you here!

     Sergeant George. Now, Archy, give the cadence in slow time. (To the squad.) Slow—march. (They march some thirty paces.) Squad—halt. (They halt, many of them out of line.) Keep your dressing. Steps like those would leave some of you half behind on a long march. Right about face—two—three. That’s better. Slow—march. (They march.) Squad—halt. (They all bring up into line.) That’s better. No hangers back with foe in front. Left about face—two—three. Keep up your heads. By the right—dress. Stand easy. Fall in, the band. We’ll try the music.

[They play, the squad saluting.

[At a signal, the band ceases playing.

Yes, that’s the way to meet your country’s foes. [page 36]
If you were Yankee lads you’d have to march to this (he takes a           flageolet). Quick—march.

Ho! Ho! That’s how you march to “Yankee Doodle.”
’Tis a fine tune! A grand, inspiring tune,

Like “Polly put the Kettle on,” or
“Dumble-dum-deary.” Can soldiers march to that?
Can they have spirit, honour, or do great deeds
With such a tune as that to fill their ears?
     Mrs. Secord. The Sergeant’s bitter on the foe, I think.

     Widow. He is, but can you wonder? Hounded out
When living peaceably upon his farm.
Shot at,¹⁷ and threatened till he takes a side,
And then obliged to fly to save his life,
Losing all else, his land, his happy home,

His loving wife, who sank beneath the change,
Because he chose the rather to endure
A short injustice, than belie his blood
By joining England’s foes. He went with Moody.
     Mrs. Secord. Poor fellow! Those were heavy times, like these.

     Shut, shut it out, I cannot bear it, Ellen,
It shakes my heart’s foundations! Let me go.
     Widow. Nay, but you’re soon upset. If you must go,
Your bonnet’s on my bed. I’ll get a bite
Of something for you on the road.

[She busies herself in filling a little basket with refreshment, and offers MRS. SECORD cake and wine.

Here, eat a bit, and drink a sup of wine,
It’s only currant; the General’s got a keg [page 37]
I sent, when stores were asked; James Coffin’s good;¹⁹
He always sends poor Ned, or Jack, or Dick,
When commissariat’s low; a mother’s heart,

A widowed mother, too, he knows, sore longs
To see her lads, e’en if she willing sends
Them all to serve the King. I don’t forget him
Morning and night, and many a time between.
No wine? Too soon? Well, take this drop along.

There’s many a mile where no fresh water is,
And you’ll be faint—

[She bursts into tears.

                        Good lan’, I cannot bear to see you go.
     Mrs. Secord. Nay, sister, nay, be calm!
Send me away light-hearted,

[Kisses her.

                                    I trust in God,
As you for your dear lads. Shew me the way

To gain the woods unseen by friend or foe,
The while these embryo soldiers are engaged.
     Widow. I’ll go with you a mile or two.
     Mrs. Secord. No, no.
It might arouse suspicion.

[She opens the door, and the WIDOW SECORD joins her.

     Widow. Times indeed
When every little act has some to watch!

[Points to a tree.

You see yon oak just by the little birch—
     Mrs. Secord. I do.
     Widow. There is a little path leads down

To a small creek, cross that, and keep the sun
Behind you half a mile, and then you strike
The bush, uncleared and wild. Good God, to think—
     Mrs. Secord. Think not, but pray, and if a chance occurs
Send aid to poor Fitzgibbon. Little help

Just in the nick of time oft turns the scale
Of fortune. God bless you, dear! Good bye.

[They embrace with tears. Exit MRS. SECORD. [page 38]

———

SCENE 2.—A beautiful glade.

Enter MRS. SECORD.—After scanning the spot searchingly, she seats herself on a fallen trunk.

     Mrs. Secord. This spot is surely safe; here I will rest,
For unaccustomed service tires my limbs,
And I have travelled many a weary rood
More than a crow-line measures; ups and downs
Absorb so many steps that nothing add

To distance. Faint am I, too, and thirsty.
Hist! hist! ye playful breezes that do make
Melodious symphonies and rippling runs
Among the pines and aspens, hear I not
A little tinkling rill, that somewhere hides

Its sweet beneficence ’mid ferns and moss?

[She rises and looks about.

Ay, here it is: a tiny brilliancy
That glances at the light, as careful, still,
To keep the pure translucency that first
It caught from Heaven. Give me, oh give, sweet rill,

A few cool drops to slake my parching throat.
Fair emblem truly thou of those meek hearts
That thread the humblest haunts of suffering earth
With Christ-like charities, and keep their souls
Pure and untaint, by Heavenly communings.

[She reseats herself, and contemplates the scene.

O this is beautiful! Here I could lie—
Were earth a myth and all her trials nought—
And dream soft nothings all a summer’s day.
In this fair glade were surely celebrate
The nuptials of the year: and for her gift,

Fair Flora, lightly loitering on the wing
Of Zephyrus, tossed all her corbel out,
Filling the air with bloom.
                                    From yonder copse,
With kindling eye and hasty step, emerged [page 39]
The gladsome Spring, with leafy honours crowned,

His following a troop of skipping lambs:
And o’er yon hill, blushing for joy, approached
His happy bride, on billowy odours borne,
And every painted wing in tendance bent.
Procession beautiful! Yet she how fair!—

The lovely Summer, in her robes of blue,
Bedecked with every flower that Flora gave,—
Sweet eglantine and meek anemone,
Bright, nodding columbine and wood-star white,
Blue violets, like her eyes, and pendant gems

Of dielytra, topaz-tipped and gold,
Fragrant arbutus, and hepatica,
With thousands more. Her wreath, a coronet
Of opening rose-buds twined with lady-fern;
And over all, her bridal-veil of white,—

Some soft diaph’nous cloudlet, that mistook
Her robes of blue for heaven.—
                                    And I could dream
That, from his lofty throne beholding,
Great Sol, on wings of glowing eve, came down
In gracious haste, to bless the nuptials.

     (She pauses.) And shall this land,
That breathes of poesy from every sod,
Indignant throb beneath the heavy foot
Of jeering renegade? at best a son
His mother blushes for—shall he, bold rebel!

Entwine its glories in defiant wreath
Above his boastful brow, and flaunt it in
Her face, rejoicing in her woe? No! No!
This priceless gem shall ever deck her crown,
And grace its setting with a ray more pure

For that, nor flood, nor fire, can flaw its heart.
Yes, Canada, thy sons, at least, maintain
The ancient honour of their British blood,
In that their loyalty contracts no stain
From proffered gifts or gold.²⁰ [page 40]

But I must on. I may not loiter, while
So much depends on me.

                                    Vile reptile!
Base as vile, and cowardly as base;
A straight descendant thou of him, methinks,
Man’s ancient foe, or else his paraphrase.

Is there no Eden that thou enviest not?
No purity thou would’st not smirch with gall?
No rest thou would’st not break with agony?
Aye, Eve, our mother-tongue avenges thee,
For there is nothing mean, or base, or vile,

That is not comprehended in the name
Of SNAKE!

[Exit MRS. SECORD.

———

SCENE 3.—A thick wood through which runs a forest path, leading to a high beech ridge.²¹

Enter MRS. SECORD, walking as quickly as the underbrush will allow.

     Mrs. Secord. How quiet are the woods!
The choir of birds that daily ushers in
The rosy dawn with bursts of melody,
And swells the joyful train that waits upon
The footsteps of the sun, is silent now,

Dismissed to greenwood bowers. Save happy cheep
Of callow nestling, that closer snugs beneath
The soft and sheltering wing of doting love,—
Like croon of sleeping babe on mother’s breast—
No sound is heard, but, peaceful, all enjoy

Their sweet siesta on the waving bough,
Fearless of ruthless wind, or gliding snake.
So peaceful lies Fitzgibbon at his post, [page 41]
Nor dreams of harm. Meanwhile the foe
Glides from his hole, and threads the darkling route,

In hope to coil and crush him.
Ah, little recks he that a woman holds
The power to draw his fangs!
And yet some harm must come, some blood must flow,
In spite of all my poor endeavour.

O War, how much I hate thy wizard arts,
That, with the clash and din of brass and steel,
O’erpowers the voice of pleading reason;
And with thy lurid light, in monstrous rays
Enfolds the symmetry of human love,

Making a brother seem a phantom or a ghoul!
Before thy deadly scowl kind peace retires,
And seeks the upper skies.
O, cruel are the hearts that cry “War!” “War!”
As if War were an angel, not a fiend;

His gilded chariot, a triumphal car,
And not a Juggernauth whose wheels drop gore;
His offerings, flowers and fruit, and chaplets gay,
And not shrieks, tears, and groans of babes and women.
And yet hath War, like Juggernauth, a hold,

A fascination, for humanity,
That makes his vot’ries martyrs for his sake.
Even I, poor weakling, march in keeping-time
To that grand music that I heard to-day,
Though children played it, and I darkly feel

Its burden is resistance physical.
’Tis strange that simple tones should move one so!
What is it, what, this sound, this air, this breath
The wind can blow away,
Nor most intricate fetters can enchain?

What component of being doth it touch
That it can raise the soul to ecstasy,
Or plunge it in the lowest depth of horror?
Freeze the stopt blood, or send it flowing on
In pleasant waves? [pages 42]

Can draw soft tears, or concentrate them hard
To form a base whereon the martyr stands
To take his leap to Heaven?
What is this sound that, in Niagara’s roar
Brings us to Sinai;

Or in the infant’s prayer to Him, “Our Father?”
That by a small inflection wakes the world,
And sends its squadroned armies on
To victory or death;
Or bids it, peaceful, rest, and grow, and build?

That reassures the frighted babe; or starts
The calm philosopher, without a word?
That, in the song of little bird speaks glee;
Or in a groan strikes mortal agony?
That, in the wind, brings us to shipwreck, death,

And dark despair;
Or paints us blessed islands far from care or pain?
Then what is sound?
The chord it vibrates with its magic touch
Is not a sense to man peculiar,

An independent string formed by that breath
That, breathed into the image corporate,
Made man a living soul.
No, for all animate nature owns
Its sovereign power. Brutes, birds, fish, reptiles, all

That breathe, are awed or won by means of sound.
Therefore, it must be of the corporate, corporeal:
And, if so, why then the body lives again,
Despite what sceptics say; for sound it is
Will summon us before that final bar

To give account of deeds done in the flesh.
The spirit cannot thus be summoned,
Since entity it hath not sound can strike.
Let sceptics rave! I see no difficulty
That He, who from primordial atoms formed

A human frame, can from the dust awake it
Once again, marshal the scattered molecules [page 43]
And make immortal, as was Adam.
This body lives! Or else no deep delight
Of quiring angels harping golden strings;

No voice of Him who calls His children home;
No glorious joining in the immortal song
Could touch our being.
                        But how refined our state!
How changed! Never to tire or grow distraught,
Or wish for rest, or sleep, or quietude,

But find in absence of these earthly needs
A truer Heaven.
                        O might I rest even now!
These feet grow painful, and the shadows tell
Of night and dark approaching, my goal
An anxious distance off.

[She gazes round.

                        I’ll rest awhile,

For yonder height will tax my waning strength,
And many a brier all beautiful with bloom
Hides many a thorn that will dispute my path
Beneath those ancient beeches.

The sun leans towards the west: O darlings mine,

E’en now, perchance, ye sit in order round
The evening board, your father at the head,
And Polly in my place making his tea,
While he pretends to eat, and cheats himself.
And thou, O husband, dearest, might I lay

My weary head as oft upon thy breast!—
But no (she rises), I dare not think—there is above
A Love will guard me, and, O blessed thought,
Thee, too, and they our darlings.

Nor bridge, nor stone, nor log, how shall I cross?

Yon o’erturned hemlock, whose wide-spreading root [page 44]
Stands like a wattled pier from which the bridge
Springs all abrupt and strait, and hangs withal
So high that hardihood itself looks blank—
I scarce may tempt, worn as I am, and spent.

And on the other bank, the great green head
Presents a wilderness of tangled boughs
By which would be a task, indeed, to reach
The ground. Yet must I try. Poor hands, poor feet,
This is rough work for you, and one small slip

Would drop me in the stream, perchance to drown.
Not drown! oh, no, my goal was set by Heaven.
Come, rally all ye forces of the will,
And aid me now! Yon height that looms above
Is yet to gain before the sun gets low.

     Sentry. Who goes there?
     Mrs. Secord. A friend.
     Sentry. What friend?
     Mrs. Secord. To Canada and Britain.
     Sentry. Your name and errand.

     Mrs. Secord. My name is Secord—Captain Secord’s wife,
Who fought at Queenston;—and my errand is
To Beaver Dam to see Fitzgibbon,
And warn him of a sortie from Fort George
To move to-night. Five hundred men, with guns,

And baggage-waggons for the spoil, are sent.
For, with such force, the enemy is sure
Our stores are theirs; and Stoney Creek avenged.
     Sentry. Madam, how know you this?
     Mrs. Secord. I overheard

Some Yankee soldiers, passing in and out
With all a victor’s license of our hearths,
Talk of it yesternight, and in such wise
No room for doubt remained. My husband wished [page 45]
To bear the news himself, but is disabled yet

By those two wounds he got at Queenston Heights,
And so the heavy task remained with me,
Much to his grief.
     Sentry. A heavy task indeed.
How got you past their lines?

     Mrs. Secord. By many wiles;
Those various arts that times like these entail.
     Sentry. And then how got you here?
     Mrs. Secord. I left my home
At daybreak, and have walked through the deep woods

The whole way since I left St. David’s Mill.
     Sentury. ’Tis past belief, did not your looks accord.
And still you have a weary way to go,
And through more woods. Could I but go with you,
How gladly would I! Such deed as yours

Deserves more thanks than I can give. Pass, friend,
All’s well.

[MRS. SECORD passes the Sentry, who turns and walks with her.

     Mrs. Secord. There’s naught to fear, I hope, but natural foes,
Lynxes or rattlesnakes, upon my way.
     Sentry. There are some Mohawks ambushed in the wood,

But where I cannot quite point out; they choose
Their ground themselves, but they are friends, though rough,—
Some of Kerr’s band, Brant’s son-in-law. You’ll need
To tell the chief your errand should you cross him.
     Mrs. Secord. Thanks: for I rather fear our red allies.

Is there a piquet?
     Sentry. No, not near me; our men are all too few—
A link goes to and fro ’twixt me and quarters,
And is but just now left (he turns sharp about).
                              My limit this—
Yonder your road (he points to the woods).
                              God be wi’ you. Good-bye.

     Mrs. Secord. Good-bye, my friend.

[Exit MRS. SECORD. [page 46]

     Sentry. A bold, courageous deed!
A very woman, too, tender and timid.
That country’s safe whose women serve her cause
With love like this. And blessed, too, it is,

In having such for wives and mothers.

———

SCENE 4.—The forest, with the sun nearly below the horizon, its rays illuminate the tops of the trees, while all below is dark and gloomy. Bats are on the wing, the night-hawk careers above the trees, fire-flies flit about, and the death-bird calls.

Enter MRS. SECORD, showing signs of great fatigue.

     Mrs. Secord. Gloomy, indeed, and weird, and oh, so lone!
In such a spot and hour the mind takes on
Moody imaginings, the body shrinks as ’twere,
And all the being sinks into a sea
Of dreariness and doubt and death.

[The call of the death-bird is heard.

Thou little owl, that with despairing note
Dost haunt these shades, art thou a spirit lost,
Whose punishment it is to fright poor souls
With fear of death?—if death is to be feared,
And not a blank hereafter. The poor brave

Who answers thee and hears no call respond,
Trembles and pales, and wastes away and dies
Within the year, thee making his fell arbiter.
Poor Indian! Much I fear the very dread
Engendered by the small neglectful bird,²²

Brings on the fate thou look’st for.
So fearless, yet so fearful, do we all,
Savage and civil, ever prove ourselves;
So strong, so weak, hurt by a transient sound,
Yet bravely stalking up to meet the death

We see.

[A prolonged howl is heard in the distance. [page 47]

The wolves! the dreadful wolves! they’ve scented me.
O whither shall I fly? no shelter near;
No help. Alone! O God, alone!

[She looks wildly round for a place to fly to. Another howl is heard.

O Father! not this death, if I must die,

My task undone, ’tis too, too horrible!

[Another howl as of many wolves, but at a distance; she bends to listen, her hand upon her heart.  

Be still, wild heart, nor fill my list’ning ears
With thy deep throbs.

[The howl of the wolves is again heard, but faintly.

Thank God, not me they seek!
Some other scent allures the ghoulish horde.

On, on, poor trembler! life for life it is,
If I may warn Fitzgibbon.

[She steps inadvertently into a little pool, hastily stoops and drinks gladly.

Oh blessed water! To my parchèd tongue
More precious than were each bright drop a gem
From far Golconda’s mine; how at thy touch

The parting life comes back, and hope returns
To cheer my drooping heart!

     Indian. Woman! what woman want?
     Mrs. Secord (leaping forward and seizing his arm). O chief, no spy am I, but friend to you
And all who love King George and wear his badge.

All through this day I’ve walked the lonely woods
To do you service. I have news, great news,
To tell the officer at Beaver Dam.
This very night the Long Knives leave Fort George
To take him by surprise, in numbers more [page 48]

Than crows on ripening corn. O help me on!
I’m Laura Secord, Captain Secord’s wife,
Of Queenstown; and Tecumseh, your great chief,
And Tekoriogea are our friends.
     Chief. White woman true and brave, I send with you

Mishe-mo-qua, he know the way and sign,
And bring you safe to mighty chief Fitzgibbon.
     Mrs. Secord. O thanks, kind chief, and never shall your braves
Want aught that I can give them.
     Chief (to another). Young chief, Mish-e-mo-qua, with woman

And give her into care of big white chief.
She carry news. Dam Long-Knife come in dark
To eat him up.
     Mishe-mo-qua. Ugh! rascal! dam!

[Exeunt MISHE-MO-QUA and MRS. SECORD. [page 49]

ACT III.

     Lieut. Fitzgibbon. ’Tis true, it seems, and yet most horrible;
More than five hundred thousand fighting men
Crossed with him o’er the front, and not a tenth
Remains. Rather than let him find a place
For winter quarters, two hundred thousand

Happy families had to forsake their homes
In dead of winter, and of the ancient seat
Of Russian splendour, Rotopschin made a pyre,
A blazing pyre of all its precious things:
Moscow is burned.

     First Sergeant. So Boney could but toast his freezing toes
And march back home again: Fine glory that!
     Fitzgibbon. Sad waste of precious lives for one man’s will.
But this mishap will seal his fate. The Czar
Will see his interest is a strong alliance,

And all the Powers will prove too great a match,
Even for Buonaparte.
     Second Sergeant. Where is he now, Lieutenant?
     Fitzgibbon. In Paris, plotting again, I see; or was
Nine weeks ago.

     First Private. Yon news coom quick. [page 50]
Now when I were a bairn, that’s forty year’ sin’,
We heard i’ York ’at Merriky refused
To pay the taxes, just three munth’s arter;
An’ that wur bonnie toime, fur then t’coaäch

Tuk but foive daäies ti mak’ t’ hull waäi’ doon,
Two hunner moile, fra Lunnon,
     Fitzgibbon (still scanning the newspaper). Well, Jimmy, here’s                a man, one Bell,
Of Greenock, can send a boat by steam
Against the wind and tide, and talks with hope

Of making speed equal to both.
He’s tried it on the Clyde, so we may look
For news from England in a month, ere long.
     First Private. Na, na, sir; noo doant ’e pooak fun at me!
Iver he doos ma’ I go hang. Why neist

They scatterbrain ’ull mayhap send a shep
Jest whear tha’ loike wi’oot a win’ at all.
Or promise till ’t. ’Twere pity Nelson, noo,
He’d noan o’ sech at Copenhäagen
Mebbe tha’ cu’d ha’ gott tha’ grunded sheps

Afloat, an gett moor men to fe’ht them Däans.
     Fitzgibbon. The fewer men the greater glory, Jim.
Why, man, he got his title by that fight.
     Second Sergeant. And well deserved it! A finer man
Never trod deck, sailor or officer;

His voice gave courage, as his eye flashed fire.
We would have died for him, and he for us;
And when the fight was done he got our rights,
Or tried at it. More than old Parker did.
     First Sergeant. Parker was rich, and so forgot the poor,

But Nelson forgot none.
     Second Private. He was cliver, too. Dash’t! how I laughed,
All i’ my sleeve o’ course. The fight was hot,
And getting hotter, for, gad, them Danes can fight!
And quite a quarter o’ the ships was stuck,

The Admiral’s among ’em. So Nelson held
The squadron at command. Up comes the word, [page 51]
 “The signal Thirty-nine is out, sir.” Nelson turns,
His stump a-goin’ as his arm was used
Afore he lost it, meets the officer, as says,

“Sir, Thirty-nine is out, shall I repeat it?”
“No, sir; acknowledge it.” Then on he goes.
Presently he calls out, “What’s flying now?”
“The same, sir.” So he takes his glass
And puts it to his eye, his blind eye, mind you,

An’ says he, “No signal can I see. No,
Ne’er a one.” Winking to Ferguson, says he,
“I’ve but one eye, and may be blind sometimes.
What! strike off now and lose the day? Not so:
My signal keep for ‘Closer battle,’ flying.

That’s how I’ll answer. Confound the signal!
Nail mine to the mast.” He won.
     First Militiaman. Just touch and go for hanging, that.
     Fitzgibbon. Success ne’er saw a scaffold, Jeremy.
     A Cadet. Fine-looking fellow Nelson was, I guess?

     First Sergeant. To look at? No, a little, thin, pale man
With a long queue, one arm, and but one eye,
But that a blazer!
     Second Militiaman. These little uns has lots o’ spunk:
Boney’s a little un, I’ve heerd.

     First Private. Just so: and Wellington ain’t big.
     Fitzgibbon (rising and drawing himself to his full height).
Come, boys, you’re getting personal. See me!
If none but little men may win renown,
I hope I’m two in one, for your sakes.

And you forget the lion-hearted Brock.
     All (interrupting him). No! no! no!
     Fitzgibbon. A man of height exceeding any here,
And yet whose alt of metred inches
Nobly enlarged to full, fair, Saxon mould,

And vested in the blazonments of rule,
Shewed not so kingly to the obeisant sight
As was his soul. Who than ye better knew
His bravery; his lofty heroism; [page 52]
His purity, and great unselfish heart?

Nature in him betrayed no niggard touch
Of corporate or ethereal. Yet I yield
That men of lesser mould in outward form
Have been as great in deeds of rich renown.
But then, I take it, greatness lies not in

The flesh, but in the spirit. He is great
Who from the quick occasion of the time
Strikes out a name. And he is also great
Who, in a life-long struggle, throws the foe,
And binds on hoary locks the laurel crown.

Each is a high exemplar.
One with concentrate vigour strikes a blow
That rings around the world; the other draws
The world round him—his mighty throes
And well-contested standpoints win its praise

And force its verdict, though bleak indifference—
A laggard umpire—long neglect his post,
And often leaves the wrestler’s best unnoted,
Coming but just in time to mark his thews
And training, and so decides: while the loud shock

Of unexpected prowess starts him aghast,
And from his careless hand snatches the proud award.
But mark me, men, he who is ever great
Has greatness made his aim—
The sudden blow or long-protracted strife

Yields not its secret to the untrained hand.
True, one may cast his statue at a heat,
But yet the mould was there;
And he who chips the marble, bit by bit,
Into a noble form, sees all the while

His image in the block.
There are who make a phantom of their aim—
See it now here, now there, in this, in that,
But never in the line of simple duty;
Such will accomplish nothing but their shame:

For greatness never leaves that thin, straight mark; [page 53]
And, just as the pursuit diverges from it,
Greatness evanishes, and notoriety
Misleads the suitor. I’d have you think of this.
     All. Aye, aye, sir.

     Fitzgibbon. Order the lights, for darkness falls apace,
And I must write.

[Exit First Private.

     Fitzgibbon (cutting the newspaper and handing the halves to                the sergeants). There, read to the rest, and let me have                them back when done with.

[A voice is heard in the next room, beginning to sing.

Who’s that?
     First Private. It’s Roaring Bill, sir; shall I stop him?

     Fitzgibbon. No; let him sing.
It cheers our loneliness, and does us good.
     First Sergeant. Another of his own, I guess; homespun
And rough, like country cloth.
     Fitzgibbon. Hush! what is that he says?

[A Cadet gently pushes one of the folding doors a little wider open.

     Roaring Bill. ’Tis but a doleful ditty, boys,
With ne’er a chorus; yet I’ll be bound
You’ll hardly quarrel with it.
     A Comrade. Let’s have it, Bill; we ain’t red Injuns,
As likes palaver.

     Roaring Bill—

SONG.

October blast had strown the wreaths that erstwhile hung so gay,
Above the brows of Queenston Heights where we impatient lay;
Niagara fretted at our feet, as chafing at his post,
And impotence to turn the fleets that bore the aggressive host.

And gray the dawn and cold the morn of Rensselaer’s attack,²⁶

But warm and true the hearts, though few, that leapt to beat him back.
“On, Forth-ninth! On, volunteers! Give tongue, ye batteries twain!”
Bold Denis spake: the guns boomed forth, and down he rushed amain.
[page 54]

They sink! They fly! They drop down stream.—Ah, too delusive sight!
A long-abandoned path they find, and gain the wooded height.

The batteries now must guard the shore—above, our struggle lies;
But down they pour, like surging flood, that skill and strength defies.

Down, down, they press us, inch by inch, beyond the village bound.
And there, o’erwhelmed, but not o’ercome, we keep our sullen ground.
Short time we stand. A ringing cheer proclaims our hero nigh;

Our darling leader, noble Brock—hark to his gallant cry!

“Follow me, boys! The hero cries. We double to the wall—
Waving his gleaming sword on high, he climbs, and follow all;
Impetuous up the mountain side he strides in warlike glee,
All heedless of the leaden hail that whistles from each tree:

For on and up proud Victory lures—we touch her laurel crown—
When by malign, deliberate aim the hero’s stricken down.
He falls! We fire, but ah, too late—the murderous work is done;
No more that voice shall cheer us on, with “Vic’ry!” in its tone.

He falls: nor word nor look may cheer young Jarvis’ anxious quest;

Among his stricken men he sinks, his hand but seeks his breast.
O, Death, could none but him suffice thy cold, insatiate eye?
Nor knewed’st thou how many there for him would gladly die!

Nor lonely speeds the parting soul, nor lonely stands the bier—
Two forms the bastion-tomb enfolds, two claim the soldier’s tear.

“Avenge the General!” was the cry. “AVENGE!” McDonell cries,
And, leading madly up the Height, McDonell falls and dies.

[Several of the men pass their hands over their eyes; MR. JARVIS goes to the open window, as if to observe something without.

     An 8th man. A mournful ditty to a mournful tune,
Yet not unworthy of the heroic theme,
Nor of a soldier’s heart.

     Mr. Jarvis (in a low voice). Indeed, you’re right.
I thank the singer for his memories,
Though sad to me, who caught Brock’s latest breath.²⁷
     Fitzgibbon. I did not think there had been such a stroke
Of genius in the lad. (Another voice.) But who’s this, now?

     Second Cadet. It’s young Jack Kelley, sir; he has a voice,
And emulates old Bill.
     Jack Kelley (with the airs of an amateur). Ugh! ugh! I’m                    hoarse. [page 55]
Now mind the coal-box, byes, and sing it up.
“The Jolly Midshipman’s” the tune.

SONG.

I.

          It was a bold Canadian boy
               That loved a winsome girl;
          And he was bold as ancient knight,
               She, fair as day’s own pearl.
          And to the greenwood they must go,

               To build a home and name,
          So he clasped hands with Industry,
               For fortune, wealth and fame.

CHORUS
(In which all join, the leader beating time upon his knees with his fists.)

               For fortune, wealth and fame,
               For fortune, wealth and fame

          So he clasped hands with Industry,
               For fortune, wealth and fame.

          And when the jocund Spring came in,
               He crowned the wedded pair,
          And sent them forth with hearts elate

               Their wildwood home to share.
          For he had built a snug log-house,
               Beneath a maple tree;
          And his axe had cleared a wide domain,
              While store of goods spun she.

CHORUS.

                   While store of goods spun she,
                   While store of goods spun she,
              And his axe had cleared a wide domain,
                    While store of goods spun she.

          The husband whistles at his plough,

              The wife sings at her wheel,
          The children wind the shrilly horn
               That tells the ready meal.
          And should you roam the wide world o’er,
               No happier home you’ll see,

          Than this abode of loving toil
               Beneath the maple tree. [page 56]

                   Beneath the maple tree,
                    Beneath the maple tree,
               Than this abode of loving toil

                    Beneath the maple tree.

     A 49th man. Hurrah, Jack! that’s a good tune,
Let’s have the chorus again.
     All—

                  Beneath the maple tree,
                  Beneath the maple tree,

          Than this abode of lov—

[The Sentry challenges, and a Corporal enters and salutes FITZGIBBON.

     Fitzgibbon. Well, Corporal.
     Corporal. Sir, here is Mishe-mo-qua and a woman.
They say they’ve news, and wish to speak with you.
     Fitzgibbon. Then, Corporal, show them in.

[Exit Corporal.

Enter MRS. SECORD and the Indian Chief, who salutes LIEUT. FITZGIBBON.

     Several Militiamen (in surprise, aside to each other). ’Tis             Mrs. Secord, Captain Secord’s wife;
What can her errand be? So tired, too,
                        And in rags.
     Mrs. Secord (courtesying). You are the Captain, sir?
     Fitzgibbon. At your service.
     Mrs. Secord. I bring you news of great importance, sir.

     Fitzgibbon. I am indebted, madam, for what I see
Has been no common task. Be seated, pray.

[A Cadet places a chair.

Chief, will you also rest?

[He indicates a couch.

     Mishe-mo-qua. No. Woman, she
Come far, to tell white chief great words.

     Fitzgibbon. I thank her much.
     Mrs. Secord. I came to say that General Dearborn tires
Of his inaction, and the narrow space
Around his works, he therefore purposes [page 57]
To fall upon your outpost here, to-night,

With an o’erwhelming force, and take your stores.
     Fitzgibbon. Madam!
     Mrs. Secord. Five hundred me, with some dragoons and guns,
Start e’en to-night, soon as the moon goes down;
Lieutenant-Colonel Bœrstler in command.

A train of waggons, too, is sent for spoil.
     Fitzgibbon. And may I ask on what authority
To trust such startling news? I know you not.
     Mrs. Secord. My name is Secord, I’m Captain Secord’s wife,
Who fought at Queenston Heights, and there received

The wounds that leave him now a helpless cripple.
Some here may know him.
     Fitzgibbon. I remember now.
     Mrs. Secord. We live within the Yankee lines, and hence
By victor’s right our home is free to them.

Last night a sergeant and his new-changed guard
Came in and asked for supper; a boy and girl
I left to wait on them, seeing the table set
With all supplies myself, and then retired.
But such their confidence; their talk so loud

And free, I could not help but hear some words
That raised suspicion; then I listened close
And heard, ’mid gibe and jest, the enterprise
That was to flout us; make the Loyalist
A cringing slave to sneering rebels; make

The British lion gnash his teeth with rage;—
The Yankee, hand-on-hip, guffawing loud
The while. At once, my British blood was up,
Nor had I borne their hated presence more,
But for the deeper cause. My husband judged

As I did, but his helpless frame forbade
His active interference, so I came,
For well we knew your risk, warning denied
     Fitzgibbon. Alone? You surely did not come alone?
     Mrs. Secord. Sir, I have walked the whole way through the

For fear of spies, braving all other foes.
Nor, since at early morn I left St. David’s Mill,
Until I met your sentry on the ridge,—
Who begged me tell you so, and said “all’s well,”—
Spoke I, or saw, a soul. Since then, the chief,

Whose senior sent him with me for a guide,
Has been my kind protector to your post.
     Fitzgibbon (to the chief). I thank you, Mishe-mo-qua, and your              chief.
     (To Mrs. Secord, bowing.) But you, oh, madam, how shall I                   thank you?
You have, indeed, performed a woman’s part,

A gentle deed; yet at expense of more
Than woman’s fitting means. I am not schooled
In courtly phrases, yet may I undertake
To thank you heartily, not on our part
Alone, but in our good King George’s name,

For act so kind achieved. Knew he your care                       
For his brave men—I speak for those around—
Of whom some fought for him at Copenhagen,²⁸
He would convey his thanks, and the Queen’s, too—
Who loves all nobleness^28a—in better terms

Than I, his humble servant. Affliction
Leaves him in our hands to do him justice;²⁹
And justice ’tis, alike to him and you,
To thank you in his name, and in the Regent’s.
     The Soldiers. Hurray! hurray! hurray!  

[The toss up their caps.

     Mrs. Secord. Sir, you make quite too much of my poor service,
I have but done my duty; and I beg
Let me not interrupt your movements now:
I would not be an obstacle across
The path I made.

     Fitzgibbon. You add an obligation, madam.

[At a signal the men from the next room file in. [page 59]

     (To the men.) We’ve hot work coming, boys. Our good friend              here
Has walked from Queenston, through the woods, this day,
To warn me that a sortie from Fort George
Is sent to take this post, and starts e’en now.

You, Cummings, mount³⁰—you know the way—and ride
With all your might, to tell De Haren this;
He lies at Twelve-Mile Creek³¹ with larger force
Than mine, and will move up to my support:
He’ll see my handful cannot keep at bay

Five hundred me, or fight in open field.
But what strength can’t accomplish cunning must—
I’ll have to circumvent them.

[Exit CUMMINGS.

     (To Mishe-mo-qua.) And you, chief,
What will you do? You’ve stood by me so long,

So faithfully, I count upon you now.
     Miseh-mo-qua. White chief say true: we good King George’s men.
My warriors yell! hide! shoot! hot bullet fly
Like dart of Annee-meekee.³²
We keep dam Long-Knife back. I go just now.

     Fitzgibbon (handing the chief a twist of tobacco, which he puts into his girdle with a grunt of satisfaction). A Mohawk is my           friend, and you are one.

[FITZGIBBON shakes hands with the Chief, who retires well pleased.

     (To Mrs. Secord.) Madam, how may I serve you to secure
Your safety? Refreshment comes; but here
Is no protection in our present strait.
     Mrs. Secord. I thank you, sir, but will not tax you more

Than some refreshment. I have friends beyond³³
A mile or two, with whom I’ll stay to-night.
     Fitzgibbon. I’ll spare an escort; Mr. Jarvis here will—

[MRS. SECORD faints.

Poor soul! poor soul! she is exhaust indeed.

     Fitzgibbon. She’s coming to. Back, men; give her more air.

     An 8th man (aside). She’ll never walk to reach her friends to-           night.
     A 49th man (to a comrade.) Jack, thou an’ me can do’t. ’Tyent           the fust time.
We’ve swung a faintin’ comrade ’twist us two;
An’ her’s just like a babby. Fatch a pole
An’ blanket, an’ we’ll carry her.

     A Sergeant. You’ll then be in the rear, for we’re to move.
     Second 49th man. We’ll catch ye oop a foight’n’; its summat           wuth
To waäit o’ sech as she.
     Fitzgibbon (to Mrs. Secord). Are you better now?
     Mrs. Secord (trying to stand). I think I am. Oh, sir, I’m losing

The time I tried to save! Pray leave me—
I shall be better soon, and I can find my way.
     Fitzgibbon. Nay, be not anxious; we are quite prepared.
Sheathed though our claws may be, they’re always sharp.
Pray drink again, nor fear the potent touch

That snatches back the life when the spent heart,
Oppressed by cruel tasks, as yours, can scarcely beat.

[MRS. SECORD drinks the coffee, and again rises, but can scarcely stand.

     49th man (saluting). Sir, me an’ Bill has here a hammock                ready,
An’ volunteers to see the lady safe
Among her friends.

     Mrs. Secord. But I can walk.
     Fitzgibbon. Madam, you cannot. Let these carry you; [page               61]
An honour I do grudge them. I shall move
With better heart knowing you cared for.
     Mrs. Secord. I’ll go at once—

     Fitzgibbon. Men, bring your hammock hither.

     Mrs. Secord. Farewell, sir. My best thanks for all your                             goodness,
Your hospitality, and this, your escort;
You do me too much honour.
     Fitzgibbon. Should we not

Show our respect for one has done so much
For us? We are your debtors, madam.

[He points to the sky, set thick with brilliant stars, the moon having already set.

See how the eyes of heaven look down on you,
And smile, in gentle approbation
Of a most gentle deed. I pray they light

You safely to your friends.
     Mrs. Secord. And you to victory, sir. Farewell.

[FITZGIBBON bows.

[Exeunt MRS. SECORD and her escort.

     Fitzgibbon (to the men who have crowded the door, and are               awaiting orders). Men, never forget this woman’s noble               deed.
Armed, and in company, inspirited
By crash of martial music, soldiers march

To duty; but she, alone, defenceless,
With no support but kind humanity
And burning patriotism, ran all our risks
Of hurt, and bloody death, to serve us men,
Strangers to her save by quick war-time ties.

Therefore, in grateful memory and kind return,
Ever treat women well.
     Men. Aye, aye, sir. [page 62]
     Fitzgibbon. Now, then, for action. I need not say,
Men, do your duty. The hearts that sprung

To follow Nelson; Brock; have never failed.
I’m proud, my men, to be your leader now.

———

SCENE 2.—Morning twilight. A little wayside tavern at a cross-road.

Enter FITZGIBBON, reconnoitring.

     Fitzgibbon. They must be pretty near by this time,
If they are come at all.

Not yet, my friends.

[They struggle, and one of the Americans draw FITZGIBBON’S sword and is about to plunge it in his shoulder.

Enter a woman, the tavern-keeper.

     Woman. Ye Yankee rogue! ye coward!³⁴

[She snatches the sword, and runs into the tavern with it.

     Fitzgibbon. Take that! and that!

[He trips up one man, and knocks the other down, putting his foot on the man’s breast.

Now, give me up your arms.

[They give up their arms.

Enter FITZGIBBON’S command.

Here, Sergeant, march them in and set a guard.

[They are marched into the tavern. Shots are heard.

     Fitzgibbon. They’re come! Quick—march, my lads. [page 63]

———

SCENE 3.—The beech ridge. Frequent firing. The Indian war-whoop. Bugles sounding the advance.

Enter LIEUT. FITZGIBBON and COL. THOMAS CLARKE.³⁵

     Fitzgibbon. The Mohawks have done well; and I am glad
To have your help, sir, too. What is your strength?
     Clarke. But twenty, sir, all told.³⁶
     Fitzgibbon. And I but thirty. Too few to fight such force
In open field. But Bœrstler’s lost his head;³⁷

Deluded by our calls, your fierce attack,
And Indian fighting—which to them has ghosts
Of their own raising—scalps, treachery, what not.
There is our chance: I mean to summon him
To a surrender.

     Clarke (in great surprise). Sir!
     Fitzgibbon. ’Tis a bold stroke, I grant, and if it fail
Why then I’ll fight it out. Keep up the scare
Some moments longer, and we’ll see.
     Clarke. Good luck betide so brave a word;

I’ll do my best.

[Exit COL. CLARKE.

Enter the American force in some confusion.

     Fitzgibbon. Sir, my compliments to your commander,
I am the leader of this large detachment,
Backed closely up by reinforcements
Larger still. Indians, our good allies,

Swarm in the woods around; and in your rear
A strong militia force awaits my orders:
Therefore, sir, to save a useless loss
Of brave men’s lives, I offer you fair terms
Of full surrender.

     American officer. I will report, sir,
To Colonel Bœrstler.

[Exit. [page 64]

     Fitzgibbon (aside). And I will pray.
For after all in God’s hand lies the day:
I’ve done the best I know.

Enter the American officer and an orderly.

     American officer. Sir, with respect, our colonel bids me say
That, seeing fate and fortune both unite
To mar success, he’ll rather save his men
By fair surrender, than waste their lives
In useless struggle. He commissions me

To act in drawing up the terms.
I am McDowell, captain of a troop.
     Fitzgibbon (bowing). Your humble servant, sir. We’ll try to                        please
Your colonel; rejoicing we have met a foe
Who knows the bravery of discretion.

Enter COL. CLARKE, CAPT. KERR, of the Indian contingent, and MISHE-MO-QUA.

     Fitzgibbon. Our terms we make as light as possible:
I hope you’ll find them so, sir.
     Capt. McDowell (after reading). Terms generous and honour-              able, sir;³⁸
I thank you. A noble foe is always half a friend.
I’ll carry them to Colonel Bœrstler,

With your consent.

[FITZGIBBON bows.

[Exit CAPT. McDOWELL.

Enter MAJOR DE HAREN, who hastens to greet LIEUT. FITZGIBBON.

     Major De Haren. Why, what is this, Fitzgibbon, that I hear?
That with your little handful you have caught
Five hundred enemy? A very elephant!
     Fitzgibbon. A strait like mine required some strategy.

     De Haren. My dear, brave fellow, you have surely won
The golden epaulettes!³⁹ How glad I am [page 65]
I was not here before. Such tact! such skill!
You are a soldier born. But who comes hither?

Enter COL. BŒRSTLER, CAPT. McDOWELL and other American officers.

     Fitzgibbon. These are the officers to sign our terms.

[The officers on both sides salute.

     Bœrstler (to Fitzgibbon). I thank you, sir, for honourable terms,
For vain it was to cope with force like yours.
But ne’er I thought to put my hand to such
A document.

[He takes up the pen.

     Fitzgibbon. Fortune of war, sir, that we all may meet.

[Each officer sings the document in his order; MISHE-MO-QUA draws his totem—a bear—as his signature.

     De Haren (to Col. Bœrstler). Will you proceed on the third                   article?
     Bœrstler (to Capt. McDowell). Give you the order.

     Fitzgibbon (to his men, who are drawn up across the road—              De Haren’s command forming their right and left wings).              Forward—ten paces.

[Enter by companies the American force, who lay down their arms in front of the British officers and defile to the rear.

     De Haren (to Fitzgibbon). A glorious day for you, Fitzgibbon;
For this fair Canada, and British arms.

     Fitzgibbon. Yes, thanks to a brave woman’s glorious deed.

[Exeunt. [page 66]

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