Rolf in the Woods Part 36

since the toboggan left all smooth after they had pa.s.sed, or maybe this was a reinforcement arriving. What could he do with his ten men against fifty of the enemy? He thanked his stars that he had so cleverly evaded the trap, and without further attempt to gauge the enemy's strength, he turned and made all possible haste back to the shelter of Ogdensburg.

Chapter 71. Sackett's Harbour

It was hours before Rolf was sure that he had stopped the pursuit, and the thing that finally set his mind at rest was the rising wind that soon was a raging and drifting snow storm. "Oh, blessed storm!" he said in his heart, as he marked all trail disappear within a few seconds of its being made. And he thought: "How I cursed the wind that held me back--really from being made prisoner. How vexed I was at that ducking in the river, that really saved my despatches from the enemy. How thankful I am now for the storm that a little while back seemed so bitterly cruel."

That forenoon they struck the big bend of the river and now did not hesitate to use the easy travel on the ice as far as Rensselaer Falls, where, having got their bearings from a settler, they struck across the country through the storm, and at night were encamped some forty miles from Ogdensburg.

Marvellously few signs of game had they seen in this hard trip; everything that could hide away was avoiding the weather. But in a cedar bottom land near Cranberry Lake they found a "yard" that seemed to be the winter home of hundreds of deer. It extended two or three miles one way a half a mile the other; in spite of the deep snow this was nearly all in beaten paths. The scouts saw at least fifty deer in going through, so, of course, had no difficulty in selecting a young buck for table use.

The going from there on was of little interest. It was the same old daily battle with the frost, but less rigorous than before, for now the cold winds were behind, and on the 27th of February, nine days after leaving, they trotted into Ticonderoga and reported at the commandant's headquarters.

The general was still digging entrenchments and threatening to annihilate all Canada. But the contents of the despatches gave him new topics for thought and speech. The part he must play in the proposed descent on Montreal was flattering, but it made the Ticonderoga entrenchments ridiculous.

For three days Rolf was kept cutting wood, then he went with despatches to Albany.

Many minor labours, from hog-killing to stable-cleaning and trenching, varied the month of March. Then came the uncertain time of April when it was neither canoeing nor snow-shoeing and all communication from the north was cut off.

But May, great, glorious May came on, with its inspiring airs and livening influence. Canoes were afloat, the woods were brown beneath and gold above.

Rolf felt like a young stag in his strength. He was spoiling for a run and volunteered eagerly to carry despatches to Sackett's Harbour. He would go alone, for now one blanket was sufficient bed, and a couple of pounds of dry meat was enough food for each day. A small hatchet would be useful, but his rifle seemed too heavy to carry; as he halted in doubt, a junior officer offered him a pistol instead, and he gladly stuck it in his belt.

Taller than ever, considerably over six feet now, somewhat lanky, but supple of joint and square of shoulder, he strode with the easy stride of a strong traveller. His colour was up, his blue-gray eyes ablaze as he took the long trail in a crow line across country for Sackett's Harbour. The sentry saluted, and the officer of the day, struck by his figure and his glowing face as much as by the nature of his errand, stopped to shake hands and say, "Well, good luck, Kittering, and may you bring us better news than the last two times."

Rolf knew how to travel now; he began softly. At a long, easy stride he went for half an hour, then at a swinging trot for a mile or two. Five miles an hour he could make, but there was one great obstacle to speed at this season--every stream was at flood, all were difficult to cross.

The brooks he could wade or sometimes could fell a tree across them, but the rivers were too wide to bridge, too cold and dangerous to swim. In nearly every case he had to make a raft. A good scout takes no chances.

A slight raft means a risky pa.s.sage; a good one, a safe crossing but loss of time in preparations. Fifteen good rafts did Rolf make in that cross-country journey of three days: dry spruce logs he found each time and bound them together with leather-wood and withes of willow. It meant a delay of at least an hour each time; that is five hours each day. But the time was wisely spent. The days were lengthening; he could travel much at dusk. Soon he was among settlements. Rumours he got at a settler's cabin of Sir George Prevost's attack on Sackett's Harbour and the gallant repulse and at morning of the fourth day he came on the hill above Sackett's Harbour--the same hill where he had stood three months before. It was with something like a clutching of his breath that he gazed; his past experiences suggested dreadful thoughts but no--thank G.o.d, "Old Glory" floated from the pole. He identified himself to the sentinels and the guard, entered the fort at a trot, and reported at headquarters.

There was joy on every side. At last the tide had turned. Commodore Chauncey, after sweeping Lake Ontario, had made a sudden descent on York (Toronto now) the capital of Upper Canada, had seized and destroyed it. Sir George Prevost, taking advantage of Chauncey's being away, had attacked Sackett's Harbour, but, in spite of the absence of the fleet, the resistance had been so vigorous that in a few days the siege was abandoned.

There were shot holes in walls and roofs, there were a few wounded in the hospital, the green embankments were torn, and the flag-pole splintered; but the enemy was gone, the starry flag was floating on the wind, and the st.u.r.dy little garrison filled with a spirit that grows only in heroes fighting for their homes.

How joyfully different from Ogdensburg.

Chapter 72. Scouting Across Country

That very night, Rolf turned again with the latest news and the commandant's reports.

He was learning the country well now, and, with the wonderful place-memory of a woodman, he was able to follow his exact back trail.

It might not have been the best way, but it gave him this advantage--in nearly every case he was able to use again the raft he had made in coming, and thereby saved many hours of precious time.

On the way out he had seen a good many deer and one bear, and had heard the howling of wolves every night; but always at a distance. On the second night, in the very heart of the wilderness, the wolves were noisy and seemed very near. Rolf was camping in the darkness. He made a small fire with such stuff as he could find by groping, then, when the fire blazed, he discovered by its light a dead spruce some twenty yards away.

Taking his hatchet he went toward this, and, as he did so, a wolf rose up, with its forefeet on a log, only five yards beyond the tree and gazed curiously at him. Others were heard calling; presently this wolf raised its muzzle and uttered a long smooth howl.

Rolf had left his pistol back at the fire; he dared not throw his hatchet, as that would have left him unarmed. He stooped, picked up a stick, and threw that; the wolf ducked so that it pa.s.sed over, then, stepping back from the log, stood gazing without obvious fear or menace.

The others were howling; Rolf felt afraid. He backed cautiously to the fire, got his pistol and came again to the place, but nothing more did he see of the wolf, though he heard them all night and kept up two great fires for a protection.

In the morning he started as usual, and before half an hour he was aware of a wolf, and later of two, trotting along his trail, a few hundred yards behind. They did not try to overtake him; indeed, when he stopped, they did the same; and when he trotted, they, true to their dog-like nature, ran more rapidly in pursuit. How Rolf did wish for his long rifle; but they gave no opportunity for a shot with the pistol. They acted, indeed, as though they knew their safe distance and the exact range of the junior gun. The scout made a trap for them by stealing back after he had crossed a ridge, and hiding near his own trail. But the wind conveyed a warning, and the wolves merely sat down and waited till he came out and went on. All day long these two strange ban dogs followed him and gave no sign of hunger or malice; then, after he crossed a river, at three in the afternoon, he saw no more of them.

Years after, when Rolf knew them better, he believed they followed him out of mild curiosity, or possibly in the hope that he would kill a deer in which they might share. And when they left him, it was because they were near the edge of their own home region; they had seen him off their hunting grounds.

That night he camped sixty miles from Ticonderoga, but he was resolved to cover the distance in one day. Had he not promised to be back in a week? The older hands had shaken their heads incredulously, and he, in the pride of his legs, was determined to be as good as his promise. He scarcely dared sleep lest he should oversleep. At ten he lay down. At eleven the moon was due to rise; as soon as that was three hours high there would be light enough, and he proposed to go on. At least half a dozen times he woke with a start, fearing he had overslept, but rea.s.sured by a glance at the low-hung moon, he had slumbered again.

At last the moon was four hours high, and the woods were plain in the soft light. A horned owl "hoo-hoo-ed," and a far-off wolf uttered a drawn-out, soft, melancholy cry, as Rolf finished his dried meat, tightened his belt, and set out on a long, hard run that, in the days of Greece, would have furnished the theme of many a n.o.ble epic poem.

No need to consult his compa.s.s. The blazing lamp of the dark sky was his guide, straight east his course, varied a little by hills and lakes, but nearly the crow-flight line. At first his pace was a steady, swinging stride; then after a mile he came to an open lake sh.o.r.e down which he went at a six-mile trot; and then an alder thicket through which his progress was very slow; but that soon pa.s.sed, and for half a mile he splashed through swamps with water a foot deep: nor was he surprised at length to see it open into a little lake with a dozen beaver huts in view. "Splash, p.r.o.ng" their builders went at his approach, but he made for the hillside; the woods were open, the moonlight brilliant now, and here he trotted at full swing as long as the way was level or down, but always walked on the uphill. A sudden noise ahead was followed by a tremendous crashing and crackling of the brush. For a moment it continued, and what it meant, Rolf never knew or guessed.

"Trot, trot," he went, reeling off six miles in the open, two or perhaps three in the thickets, but on and on, ever eastward. Hill after hill, swamp after swamp, he crossed, lake after lake he skirted round, and, when he reached some little stream, he sought a log bridge or prodded with a pole till he found a ford and crossed, then ran a mile or two to make up loss of time.

Tramp, tramp, tramp, and his steady breath and his steady heart kept unremitting rhythm.

Chapter 73. Rolf Makes a Record

Twelve miles were gone when the foreglow--the first cold dawn-light showed, and shining across his path ahead was a mighty rolling stream.

Guided by the now familiar form of Goodenow Peak he made for this, the Hudson's lordly flood. There was his raft securely held, with paddle and pole near by, and he pushed off with all the force of his young vigour.

Jumping and careening with the stream in its freshet flood, the raft and its hardy pilot were served with many a whirl and some round spins, but the long pole found bottom nearly everywhere, and not ten minutes pa.s.sed before the traveller sprang ash.o.r.e, tied up his craft, then swung and tramped and swung.

Over the hills of Vanderwhacker, under the woods of Boreas. Tramp, tramp, splash, tramp, wringing and sopping, but strong and hot, tramp, tramp, tramp, tramp. The partridge whirred from his path, the gray deer snorted, and the panther sneaked aside. Tramp, tramp, trot, trot, and the Washburn Ridge was blue against the sunrise. Trot, trot, over the low, level, mile-long slope he went, and when the Day-G.o.d burnt the upper hill-rim he was by brown Tahawus flood and had covered eighteen miles.

By the stream he stopped to drink. A partridge c.o.c.k, in the pride of spring, strutted arrogantly on a log. Rolf drew his pistol, fired, then hung the headless body while he made a camper's blaze: an oatcake, the partridge, and river water were his meal. His impulse was to go on at once. His reason, said "go slow." So he waited for fifteen minutes. Then again, beginning with a slow walk, he ere long added to his pace. In half an hour he was striding and in an hour the steady "trot, trot,"

that slackened only for the hills or swamps. In an hour more he was on the Washburn Ridge, and far away in the east saw Schroon Lake that empties in the river Schroon; and as he strode along, exulting in his strength, he sang in his heart for joy. Again a gray wolf cantered on his trail, and the runner laughed, without a thought of fear. He seemed to know the creature better now; knew it as a brother, for it gave no hostile sound, but only seemed to trot, trot, for the small joy of running with a runner, as a swallow or an antelope will skim along by a speeding train. For an hour or more it matched his pace, then left as though its pleasant stroll was done, and Rolf kept on and on and on.

The spring sun soared on high, the day grew warm at noon. Schroon River just above the lake was in his path, and here he stopped to rest. Here, with the last of his oatcake and a little tea, he made his final meal; thirty eight miles had he covered since he rose; his clothes were torn, his moccasins worn, but his legs were strong, his purpose sure; only twenty-two miles now, and his duty would be done; his honours won. What should he do, push on at once? No, he meant to rest an hour. He made a good fire by a little pool, and using a great ma.s.s of caribou moss as a sponge, he had a thorough rub-down. He got out his ever-ready needle and put his moccasins in good shape; he dried his clothes and lay on his back till the hour was nearly gone. Then he girded himself for this the final run. He was weary, indeed, but he was far from spent, and the iron will that had yearly grown in force was there with its unconquerable support.

Slowly at start, soon striding, and at last in the famous jog trot of the scout he went. The sky was blackened with clouds at length, and the jealous, howling east wind rolled up in rain; the spindrift blurred the way; the heavy showers of spring came down and drenched him; but his pack was safe and he trotted on and on. Then long, deep swamps of alder barred his path, and, guided only by the compa.s.s, Rolf pushed in and through and ever east. Barely a mile an hour in the thickest part he made, but lagged not; drenched and footsore, warm and torn, but doggedly, steadily on. At three he had made a scant seven miles; then the level, open wood of Thunderbolt was reached and his stride became a run; trot, trot, trot, at six-mile gait, for but fifteen miles remained.

Sustained, inspired, the bringer of good news, he halted not and faltered not, but on and on.

Tramp tramp, tramp tramp--endless, tireless, hour by hour. At five he was on Thunder Creek, scarce eight miles more to the goal; his limbs were sore, his feet were sore; bone tired was he, but his heart was filled with joy.

"News of battle, news of victory" he was bringing, and the thought lent strength; the five mires pa.s.sed, the way was plain with good roads now, but the runner was so weary. He was striding, his running was done, the sun was low in the west, his feet were bleeding, the courier was brain worn and leg worn, but he strode and strode. He pa.s.sed by homes but heeded them not.

"Come in and rest," called one who saw nothing but a weary traveller.

Rolf shook his head, but gave no word and strode along. A mile--a short mile now; he must hold out; if he sat down he feared he could not rise.

He came at last in sight of the fort; then, gathering all his force, he broke into a trot, weak, so weak that had he fallen, he could scarcely have got up, and slow, but faster than a walk: and so, as the red sun sank, he pa.s.sed the gate. He had no right to give tidings to any but the general, yet they read it in his eyes. The guard broke into a cheer, and trotting still, though reeling, Rolf had kept his word, had made his run, had brought the news, and had safely reached his goal.

Chapter 74. Van Trumper's Again

Why should the scout bringing good news be differently received from the one that brings the ill? He did not make, the news, he simply did his duty; the same in both cases. He is merely the telegraph instrument.

Yet it is so ever. King Pharaoh slew the bearer of ill-tidings; that was human nature. And General Hampton brought in the tall stripling to his table, to honour him, to get the fullest details, to glory in every item as though it all were due to himself. Rolf's wonderful journey was dilated on, and in the reports to Albany he was honourably mentioned for exceptionally meritorious service as a bearer of despatches.

For three days Flying Kittering was hero of the post; then other runners came with other news and life went on.

Hitherto the scouts had worn no uniform, but the execution of one of their number, who was captured by the British and treated as a spy, resulted in orders that all be formally enlisted and put in uniform.