held by force of arms all territories at floor level contiguous to, under, comprised, and bounded by, the four square legs and corners of the bed.
Quonab’s nightly couch was a blanket not far away, and his daily, self-given task to watch the wounded and try by devious ways and plots to trick him into eating ever larger meals.
Garrison duty was light now, so Quonab sought the woods where the flocks of partridge swarmed, with Skookum as his aid. It was the latter’s joyful duty to find and tree the birds, and “yap” below, till Quonab came up quietly with bow and blunt arrows, to fill his game-bag; and thus the best of fare was ever by the invalid’s bed.
Rolf’s was easily a winning fight from the first, and in a week he was eating well, sleeping well, and growing visibly daily stronger.
Then on a fleckless dawn that heralded a sun triumphant, the Indian borrowed a drum from the bandsman, and, standing on the highest breastwork, he gazed across the dark waters to the whitening hills. There on a tiny fire he laid tobacco and kinnikinnik, as Gisiss the Shining One burnt the rugged world rim at Vermont, and, tapping softly with one stick, he gazed upward, after the sacrificial thread of smoke, and sang in his own tongue:
“Father, I burn tobacco, I smoke to Thee. I sing for my heart is singing.”
Pleasant chatter of the East was current by Rolf’s bedside. Stories of homes in the hills he heard, tales of hearths by far away lakes and streams, memories of golden haired children waiting for father’s or brother’s return from the wars. Wives came to claim their husbands, mothers to bring away their boys, to gain again their strength at home. And his own heart went back, and ever back, to the rugged farm on the shores of the noble George.
In two weeks he was able to sit up. In three he could hobble, and he moved about the town when the days were warm.
And now he made the acquaintance of the prisoners. They were closely guarded and numbered over a hundred. It gave him a peculiar sensation to see them there. It seemed un-American to hold a human captive; but he realized that it was necessary to keep them for use as hostages and exchanges.
Some of them he found to be sullen brutes, but many were kind and friendly, and proved to be jolly good fellows.
On the occasion of his second visit, a familiar voice saluted him with, “Well, Rolf! Comment ca va?” and he had the painful joy of greeting Francois la Colle.
“You’ll help me get away, Rolf, won’t you?” and the little Frenchman whispered and winked. “I have seven little ones now on La Riviere, dat have no flour, and tinks dere pa is dead.”
“I’ll do all I can, Francois,” and the picture of the desolate home, brought a husk in his voice and a choke in his throat. He remembered too the musket ball that by intent had whistled harmless overhead. “But,” he added in a shaky voice, “I cannot help my country’s enemy to escape.”
Then Rolf took counsel with McGlassin, told him all about the affair at the mill, and McGlassin with a heart worthy of his mighty shoulders, entered into the spirit of the situation, went to General Macomb presenting such a tale and petition that six hours later Francis bearing a passport through the lines was trudging away to Canada, paroled for the rest of the war.
There was another face that Rolf recognized — hollow-cheeked, flabby-jowled and purplish-gray. The man was one of the oldest of the prisoners. He wore a white beard end moustache. He did not recognize Rolf, but Rolf knew him, for this was Micky Kittering. How he escaped from jail and joined the enemy was an episode of the war’s first year. Rolf was shocked to see what a miserable wreck his uncle was. He could not do him any good. To identify him would have resulted in his being treated as a renegade, so on the plea that he was an old man, Rolf saw that the prisoner had extra accommodation and out of his own pocket kept him abundantly supplied with tobacco. Then in his heart he forgave him, and kept away. They never met again.
The bulk of the militia had been disbanded after the great battle. A few of the scouts and enough men to garrison the fort and guard the prisoners were retained. Each day there were joyful partings — the men with homes, going home. And the thought that ever waxed in Rolf came on in strength. He hobbled to headquarters. “General, can I get leave — to go — he hesitated — home?”
“Why, Kittering, I didn’t know you had a home. But, certainly, I’ll give you a month’s leave and pay to date.”
Champlain is the lake of the two winds; the north wind blows for six months with a few variations, and the south wind for the other six months with trifling.
Next morning a bark canoe was seen skimming southward before as much north wind as it could stand, with Rolf reclining in the middle, Quonab at the stern, and Skookum in the bow.
In two days they were at Ticonderoga. Here help was easily got at the portage and on the evening of the third day, Quonab put a rope on Skookum’s neck and they landed at Hendrik’s farm.
The hickory logs were blazing bright, and the evening pot was reeking as they opened the door and found the family gathered for the meal.
“I didn’t know you had a home,” the general had said. He should have been present now to see the wanderer’s welcome. If war breeds such a spirit in the land, it is as much a blessing as a curse. The air was full of it, and the Van Trumpers, when they saw their hero hobble in, were melted. Love, pity, pride, and tenderness were surging in storms through every heart that knew. “Their brother, their son come back, wounded, but proven and glorious.” Yes, Rolf had a home, and in that intoxicating realization he kissed them all, even Annette of the glowing cheeks and eyes; though in truth he paid for it, for it conjured up in her a shy aloofness that lasted many days.
Old Hendrik sputtered around. “Och, I am smile; dis is goood, yah. Vere is that tam dog? Yah! tie him not, he shall dis time von chicken have for joy.”
“Marta,” said Rolf, “you told me to come here if I got hurt. Well, I’ve come, and I’ve brought a boat-load of stuff in case I cannot do my share in the fields.”
“Press you, my poy you didn’t oughter brung dot stuff; you know we loff you here, and effery time it is you coom I get gladsomer, and dot Annette she just cried ven you vent to de war.”
“Oh, mother, I did not; it was you and little Hendrick!” and Annette turned her scarlet cheeks away.
October, with its trees of flame and gold, was on the hills; purple and orange, the oaks and the birches; blue blocked with white was the sky above, and the blue, bright lake was limpid.
“Oh, God of my fathers,” Quonab used to pray, “when I reach the Happy Hunting, let it be ever the Leaf- falling Moon, for that is the only perfect time.” And in that unmarred month of sunny sky and woodlands purged of every plague, there is but one menace in the vales. For who can bring the glowing coal to the dry-leafed woods without these two begetting the dread red fury that devastates the hills?
Who can bring the fire in touch with tow and wonder at the blaze? Who, indeed? And would any but a dreamer expect young manhood in its growing strength, and girlhood just across the blush-line, to meet in daily meals and talk and still keep up the brother and sister play? It needs only a Virginia on the sea-girt island to turn the comrade into Paul.
“Marta, I tink dot Rolf an Annette don’t quarrel bad, ain’t it?”
“Hendrik, you vas von blind old bat-mole,” said Marta, “I fink dat farm next ours purty good, but Rolf he say ’No Lake George no good.’ Better he like all his folk move over on dat Hudson.”
Chapter 86. The New Era of Prosperity
As November neared and his leave of absence ended, Rolf was himself again; had been, indeed, for two weeks, and, swinging fork or axe, he had helped with many an urgent job on the farm.
A fine log stable they had rolled up together, with corners dovetailed like cabinet work, and roof of birch bark breadths above the hay.
But there was another building, too, that Rolf had worked at night and day. It was no frontier shack, but a tall and towering castle, splendid and roomy, filled with loved ones and love. Not by the lake near by, not by the river of his choice, but higher up than the tops of the high mountains it loomed, and he built and built until the month was nearly gone. Then only did he venture to ask for aid, and Annette it was who promised to help him finish the building.
Yes, the Lake George shore was a land of hungry farms. It was off the line of travel, too. It was neither Champlain nor Hudson; and Hendrik, after ten years’ toil with barely a living to show, was easily convinced. Next
