Part 4 (1/2)

”It may save some poor fellow's life, my dear,” he answered, ”and one must always prepare for the worst, war is such an uncertain game. Indeed, wounds and death are almost the only things certain about it.”

”Keep in the rear of the troops, my son, and take your orders from Major Sheaffe or of the army surgeon. I told them both what we were sending, as they pa.s.sed. Keep out of gunshot and avoid capture: the time may come only too soon when you'll share the battle's brunt yourself.”

”I wish it were to-day, father. I'd give almost anything to be with Brock and his brave fellows.”

”So would I, my son; but I must be the home-guard. It would never do to leave Kate and the maids unprotected, with an invasion so near. And no work can be more important than may be before you both before you return.”

The brave boy drove off to the scene of action, the distant rattle of musketry, and at short intervals the loud roar of the cannon, making his heart throb with martial enthusiasm. The young preacher communed with his own heart on the unnatural conflict between his own kinsmen after the flesh and the compatriots of his spiritual adoption--and was still. The brave old veteran, shouldering the musket that had done good service at Brandywine and Germantown, patrolled the river road bounding the farm.

As they approached the village of Queenston, Neville and Zenas found that a temporary lull in hostilities had taken place. The Americans had possession of the heights, and were strongly re- enforced from the Lewiston side of the river.

The redcoats from Fort George--about four hundred men of the 41st regiment, together with a part of the 49th, which had already been in action--were about to march by a by-road apparently away from the scene of action.

”h.e.l.lo!” said Zenas to young Ensign Norton, of the 41st regiment, who was a frequent visitor at his father's house. ”I don't understand this. You are not running away from these fellows are you? Why don't you drive the Yankees from that battery?”

”We intend to, young Hotspur, but it would be madness to charge up that hill in face of those guns. We are to take them in flank, I suppose, and drive them over the cliff.”

”Where's Brock?” asked the boy, jealous of the fame of his hero, which he seemed to think compromised by this prudent counsel.

”Have not you heard,” said Norton, with something between a sigh and a sob? ”He'll never lead us again. He lies in yonder house,”

pointing to a long, low, poor-looking dwelling-house on the left side of the road.

”What! dead? killed--so soon?” cried the boy, turning white, and then flus.h.i.+ng red, and unconsciously clenching his fists as he spoke.

”Yes, Mister,” said a war-bronzed soldier standing by, who looked doubly grim from the blood trickling down his powder-blackened cheek from a scalp wound received during the morning skirmish. ”I stood anear him when he fell, an' G.o.d knows I'd rather the bullet had struck me; my fighting days will soon be over, anyhow. But we'll avenge his death afore the day is done. They call us the green tigers, them fellers do, an' there's not a man of us won't fight like a tiger robbed of her whelps, for not a man of us wouldn't 'a' died for the General.”

”To the right, wheel, forward march!” came the order from the Colonel, and the ”green tigers” filed on with the grim resolve to conquer or to die.

The militia, clad chiefly in homespun frieze, with flint-lock muskets and stout cartridge boxes at their belts, were drawn up at the roadside, and were being supplied with ammunition, previous to following the regulars.

A number of Indians, whose chief dress was a breach clout and deerskin leggings, formidable in their war-paint and war plumes, with scalping-knives and tomahawks, were only partially held in hand by Chief Brant, conspicuous by his height, his wampum fillet and eagle plumes, and his King George's medal on his breast.

”Drive on to the village,” said Major-General Sheaffe, who was now chief in command, to Zenas as he pa.s.sed. ”You will find plenty to do there.”

At the house where Brock's body lay, a single sentry stood at guard, his features settled in a fixed and stony stare, as though by a resolute effort controlling his emotions. Beyond the village a strong guard was drawn up, and two field pieces, with their gunners, occupied the road.

Soldiers were pa.s.sing in and out of a large barn which stood near the roadside. They came in groups of two each from the trampled hill slope, bearing on stretchers their ghastly burden of bleeding and wounded men. Although coming within musket-range of the American force, no molestation was offered. Their work of humanity was felt to be too sacred for even red-handed War to disturb.

Indeed, both American and British wounded were cared for with generous impartiality.

Zenas and Neville, a.s.sisted by an officer's orderly, conveyed their hospital stores into the barn. On bundles of unthreshed wheat, or on trusses of hay, were a number of writhing, groaning, bleeding forms, a few hours since in the vigour of manhood's strength, now maimed, some of them for life, some of them marked for death, and one ghastly form already cold and rigid, covered by a blood-stained sheet At one side they beheld an army surgeon with his sleeves rolled up, but, notwithstanding this precaution, smeared with blood, kneeling over a poor fellow who lay upon a truss of hay, and probing his shoulder to trace and, if possible, extract a bullet that had deeply penetrated.

”Why, Jim Larkins, is that you?” exclaimed Zenas, recognizing an old neighbour and recent schoolfellow.

”Yes, Zenas, all that's left of me. I won't fight no more for one while, I guess,” he answered, as he moaned with agony as the doctor probed the wound.

”Give him a drink,” said the doctor, and Zenas, as tenderly as a girl, supported his head and held to his parched lips a mug of cold and refres.h.i.+ng tea.

”Blessings on the kind heart that sent that,” said the wounded man.

”It was Kate,” said Zenas.