A Sentry, smoking a pipe, was lounging by the entrance to the sally port. Roger asked him where his commanding officer could be found. The man jerked his thumb toward the nearer of the blockhouses. ‘Colonel Jason be yonder.’
Leaving the Longhunters outside, Roger and Mary entered the stockade. After further enquiries they located the Colonel in one of the buildings, sitting with another officer at a rough, plank table in a back room. It had a dirt floor, was sour-smelling and dim, the only light coming from loopholes in two of the walls. The uniforms of the two officers were dark blue serge, with dull red facings, worn and grease-stained. They were sorting through a small pile of papers, but, greatly to Roger’s relief, there were no maps to be seen, or other evidence that this was a military headquarters similar to those he was accustomed to frequent in Europe.
Bowing politely, he took a paper from his pocket, handed it to the elder of the officers and said, ‘My name, Sir, is Roger Brook. Permit me to present my wife. These are my credentials.’
As Mary curtseyed, the two men stood up and bowed. The Colonel, who was grey-haired, with a lined face, took the paper.
At Roger’s dictation Mary had headed it, ‘To whom it may concern,’ then written:
‘Mr. Roger Brook of this city is a qualified surveyor in the employ of my department, and his wife is his assistant. This is to request that every assistance shall be given to them to carry out their work and, where possible, accommodation be provided for them.’
Beneath this she had forged the signature of Andrew Stapleton—the name of the Minister concerned—then had carefully printed underneath: DEPARTMENT OF RIVERS AND FORESTS.
For a long moment they waited in acute suspense while Colonel Jason read it. He then looked up and, to their immense relief, showed no suspicion that the document might be a forgery. ‘Well, Mr. Brook,’ he said. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘As you must be aware, Sir,’ Roger replied, ‘the maps of this remote part of New York State are most indifferent. I have been sent here to make better ones. If you can provide my wife and me with accommodation we should be most grateful. And rations. For the latter I am, of course, quite willing to pay, as they will be charged to my department.’
The Colonel nodded. ‘That’s no great problem. The fort itself is fuller than a barrel of herrings; but, as you’ll have seen, we’ve built scores of shacks nearby. Long huts for the men and cabins for the officers and some of the wives who’ve been living here with them all winter. But now the fighting’ll soon start again, several of the ladies have already left.’
With a wave of his hand toward the other officer, he added, ‘This is Captain Dayho. He’ll take you along and allot you quarters.’
The Brooks exchanged bows with Dayho, then thanked the Colonel. All had gone smoothly and they could now hope that within a few days they would be across the river.
The Captain, a sprightly, youngish man with bushy side-whiskers, escorted them to the sally port, where Roger presented Ben Log and Shorty to him. Accompanied by the two Longhunters, they walked for some distance through dirty slush along a path to a large clearing in which there were a score or more of cabins. Most of them were still occupied, but several had been abandoned, the wives having left and their husbands having moved into one of the long huts reserved for officers. After looking into several, Mary chose one which had been left in a cleaner condition than the others. It was furnished only with a broad, leathermesh bed on which there was a thin palliasse stuffed with straw, a rough-hewn table, several empty packing cases that could be used either to sit on or keep spare clothes in, and an iron brazier.
Smiling at Mary, Dayho said, ‘Not much of a place for a lady like you, Ma’am, but it’s the best we can do. There’s a woodstack behind this row of cabins, from which you can collect logs for your fire, and any of the other ladies in the clearing will tell you where you can draw your rations. As you are from New York, I fear you will find social life here very dull. Colonel Jason takes the view that parties should be discouraged, as they distract his officers from their dooties.’
Turning to Roger, he went on, ‘You suggested paying for your rations, Sir, but that is quite unnecessary. And we shall be happy to make you an honorary member of our Mess whenever you care to come to it. Now, if you will excuse me, I must get back, as we are exceptionally hard at it preparing for the new campaign.’
When he had left them Shorty went round to the wood-stack, collected some logs and got a fire going in the brazier, while Ben Log went to fetch the covered wagon. They unloaded all their belongings, then Roger paid off the half-breed driver.
The Longhunters realised that now Roger and Mary had been installed in the camp they would no longer need their services so, after a drink of spruce all round, the good-byes were said. Roger offered them a bonus on the sum agreed, but smilingly they refused to take it, declaring that it had been a privilege and a pleasure to escort such a gay and uncomplaining little lady as Mary on a trek. Not to be outdone, she kissed them both on their bearded cheeks. Then, with their long, loping stride, these two of Nature’s gentlemen went on their way.
After distributing their things about the cabin and arranging it as comfortably as possible, Roger and Mary went out to make acquaintance with their nearest neighbours. The men were on duty with their troops and there were only a few, furclad women about. They were all of a type that Americans describe as very ‘ornary’, and a little over-awed by Mary’s ladylike appearance, which she could not disguise; but they were pleasant and helpful about telling of the life of the camp.
That evening Roger tactfully acted on Captain Dayho’s invitation to make use of the Officers’ Mess, and spent an hour or so drinking with several of the members to whom Dayho introduced him. As he had expected, only the few seniors were regulars, the others being Militia and mostly farmers or storekeepers from small up-country towns. Nearly all of them wished the war soon over, as their hearts were not in it, and Roger felt sorry for them because they obviously knew next to nothing about soldiering and could not hope to stand up against equal numbers of well-disciplined British troops.
When he got back to the cabin he found that Mary had succeeded in making a stew from some venison left them by the Longhunters, but it had proved a far from pleasant task, as the only means of cooking was the brazier and there was no chimney, only a hole in the roof to let out the smoke. The cabin was half-filled with it, and her eyes were smarting painfully.
She had also had an unnerving experience when going to the woodpile for more logs. Strange noises were coming from it, and she had feared they were from some wild animal. But she had been reassured by another woman coming up, who laughed at her, then told her it was only a chipmunk and quite harmless.
Anxious to get away as soon as possible from these comfortless conditions, they went out early the following morning, armed with Roger’s theodolite and a book for making notes. On reaching the river they found, to their disappointment, that the bank there was a sheer cliff nearly a hundred feet deep, and that the river below was only partly frozen with, between the ice along both banks, a raging torrent caused by the melting snow.
Pretending to take observations now and then, they made their way upstream for several miles, only to find that, although dangerous-looking paths wound down the cliff here and there, at no place was it possible to cross the river. Next day they explored the territory in the opposite direction, but met with no better fortune. At one place there was a tangle of rocks where it would have been possible in summer to cross by scrambling from one to another, but now the rocks were half-submerged in clouds of white, foaming water cascading over them.
Their third day being a Sunday, convention prohibited them from appearing to do any work but, after attending service they went for a long walk. At dusk, tired and depressed, they were about to re-enter the camp when, just outside it, they came upon a group of men. In the centre was an Indian and standing round him were half a dozen soldiers. As Roger and Mary approached they saw that he was a youngish man and, by the scarlet feather that dangled from his scalp-lock, a brave. His furs had been taken from him, one of the soldiers had put a noose of rope over his head, while another threw the other end over the low branch of a big tree. Although the native was half-naked in the biting cold, and obviously about to be hanged, he stood erect and unmoving, his proud face showing no trace of fear.
Halting beside the group, Roger asked the sergeant in charge. ‘Why are you about to hang this man?’
‘Because ’e’s a dirty spy, Sirre,’ replied the N.C.O. ‘We roped him in this mornin’ an’ we’re wise to ’is tribe. ’E comes from over thar, across the river.’
Mary’s heart was wrung with pity for the impassive brave, and she exclaimed to Roger, ‘Can we do nothing to save him?’
Not wishing to show pity in front of the American soldiers for one of their enemies, she had spoken in French. Immediately the Indian was galvanised into speech. In the French patois that was the lingua franca of the Indians in Canada, his dark eyes flashing, he cried:
‘I beg your help! I am a Christian. The rich furs you wear and those of he who is with you tell me that he is a great Chief. Beautiful lady, I implore you. I implore you do not stand by and let them take my life.’
Roger well knew that hanging was the normal penalty for any spy who was caught, but he also felt a natural pity for this brave man. Suddenly, he had had an inspiration, and said to the sergeant:
‘As I am not one of your officers, I cannot give you an order; but I can give you a very good reason why you should not yet hang this fellow. He tells me he is a Christian. As you probably know, nearly all Indian Christians in Canada have been converted by the Fathers. He is therefore a Roman Catholic. As such he naturally wishes to make confession before he dies, and receive absolution for his sins. It is only reasonable that he should be kept prisoner for a few days until one of the priests from St. Regis can be brought up here to perform the last rites for him.’
There ensued an argument between Roger and the sergeant, but one of the soldiers happened to be a Catholic, and broke in strongly to support Roger’s contention; so it was decided that the prisoner should be taken to the fort and brought before the Commandant for his decision.
After a wait of half an hour the grey-haired Colonel Jason received them and listened to what Roger had to say. As the Colonel could speak no French and wished to interrogate the Indian, Roger acted as interpreter. It transpired that the man was a Cree Indian named Leaping Squirrel. He was twenty-four years old and son of a Sagamore who ruled over many lesser Chiefs. At the age of fourteen his father had sent him to the Jesuit mission at Caughnawaga, near Montreal. There he had been baptised and remained for two years, learning to read and write in French, and about the life of Jesus Christ. To prove his assertion he recited the Lord’s Prayer and some passages from the Gospels.
There could be no doubt that he had been sent across the river to get some idea, of the strength of the American forces in that area, so the Colonel was in no mood to show him mercy; but he did agree to grant a reprieve until a Catholic priest could be brought up from St. Regis to hear the man’s confession.
Roger then said, ‘That may take a week or more, Sir. In the meantime would you allow me to take charge of him? As a servant he could relieve my wife for a while of some of the menial tasks, to which she is unaccustomed. Moreover, since he must know a good deal about the territory in this neighbourhood, I have no doubt that he would be willing, out of gratitude, to help me with my surveying.’
The Colonel considered for a moment. As the Brooks were supposed to be Americans, they had agreed when leaving New York that Mary should be known as Mrs. Brook instead of Lady Mary. But on his visits to the Mess Roger had casually mentioned that he had been a friend for many years of Gouverneur Morris, and named several other prominent New Yorkers he had met while a guest of the van Wycks. In consequence the Colonel had come to regard him as a man with influence, whose wishes it would be wise to humour. Looking up, he said:
‘Mr. Brook, realising that your wife is a lady of quality, I should have liked to provide her with a servant. But to do so would have been unfair to the wives of my officers, who have to fend for themselves. However, I see no reason why you should not have the use of this man while he remains with us. In the daytime, of course, you will be armed, so could shoot him if he attempts to escape. But what of the nights? I have no other prisoners as yet, every room in the fort is occupied, and I am loath to spare men to stand guard over him in a cabin.’
Roger swiftly countered that by saying, ‘If he is given back his furs, Sir, he is used to sleeping in the open. He would be as much a prisoner if he dosses down within the compound as he would be in a cell, for without help he could not possibly climb out over the palisade.’
So the matter was settled. The thongs that bound the Indian’s hands behind his back were cut, upon which he knelt down before Mary and kissed the hem of her fur robe in gratitude. His furs were brought to him and, as night had now fallen, a soldier took him to a place alongside the palisade where he could sleep. Then Roger and Mary returned to their cabin to eat a cold supper.
Next morning they collected Leaping Squirrel from the compound, gave him the theodolite to carry and set off on their daily walk along the cliff. When they had covered a couple of miles, Roger pointed to a small mound from which anyone approaching could be seen from a distance, and said, ‘Now, let’s sit down there and talk.’
When they were all seated, he addressed Leaping Squirrel in French. ‘You realise that, within a week at most, one of the Fathers will have come up from St. Regis, and that when you have made your confession there will be no way in which you can secure a further respite from being hanged?’
The Indian gravely inclined his head. ‘I accept that. Leaping Squirrel was told before he started on the trail that if he fell into a snare his end would be as that of a robbing stoat dangling from a tree. To you, noble ones of the Americani, Leaping Squirrel is grateful for these few extra days of life.’
‘We are not Americani,’ said Roger quietly. ‘My wife and I are Englesi.’
The dark eyes of the Indian suddenly lit up. ‘Then Leaping Squirrel is not the enemy of the noble ones, but their little brother.’
Roger nodded. ‘Yes. We three are as one people. My wife and I are very anxious to get to Canada, but we cannot find a way to cross the river. By showing us a way you can not only earn our gratitude, but save your own life.’
No longer impassive, the Indian spread wide his hands, bowed his fine head then exclaimed joyfully, ‘Noble ones, the Lord Jesus sent you to Leaping Squirrel. You are to him as the hand of the Father when He held it over Daniel in the lion’s den. Leaping Squirrel will lead you to Canada. But the trail is long. Three sleeps from here. No, four or more for the tender feet of the gracious lady, before we can cross the rushing water.’
‘No matter,’ Roger smiled. ‘And the sooner we are on our way, the better. We will start tonight.’
The Indian’s face fell. ‘How is that possible, noble one? Leaping Squirrel is a captive. He sleeps within the stockade.’
‘We will get you out. It means running a certain risk, but with a little luck it can be done. Fortunately, the moon is in its last quarter, so the stockade will be in semi-darkness; and you must pick a place in which to sleep where the shadow from one of the blockhouses will conceal you. I’ll then throw a rope over to you so that you can haul yourself up and get over the palisade.’
‘But what then, noble one? When it is found that Leaping Squirrel has escaped, Indian trackers will be sent after him. Given a few hours’ start, he could outdistance them. What, though, of the gracious lady? She could not travel at such speed. After our first sleep, at best our second, they would catch up with us.’
That most unpleasant possibility had not occurred to Roger. As he looked anxiously at Mary, she said:
‘It is a chance we must take. Unless we do, in a few days’ time a priest will arrive from St. Regis to hear Leaping Squirrel’s confession, and then he will be hanged. Besides, I am stronger than I look.’
Roger smiled. ‘That’s true, my love; and you are right about Leaping Squirrel. If we can get a good start, we should be able to throw any trackers off our scent. There is also the fact that, without a guide, the possibility of our getting across the river seems very slender. I think we should risk it.’
Having taken this decision, they left the mound and went into a nearby neck of the woods, with the object of sleeping through the afternoon, so that they would be able to travel all night without needing to rest. Leaping Squirrel gathered some young branches of sassafras to make a couch for Mary, then they settled down.
Early in the evening, filled with suppressed excitement, they returned to camp. While Mary went to the cabin to cook supper, Roger accompanied Leaping Squirrel into the stockade, and the Indian indicated the spot against the palisade where he would lie in his furs when night came. Roger, while apparently looking unconcernedly about him, counted the number of posts in the palisade from the spot chosen to the south-west corner. Walking out through the sally port he again counted the posts up to the same number, picked up a large stone and put it against the post, so that he could find it easily again; then he went to the Mess, bought a bottle of brandy, had his usual evening drink there, and afterwards rejoined Mary.
When they had had their meal, they packed all the belongings they felt they could not do without, and such food as Mary had been able to get hold of, into two bundles in the canvas of the bivouac under which they had slept on the way up to Fort George; but Roger had first tied the greater part of the ropes by which it was pegged out into one length of about eighteen feet.
Having completed these preparations, they had to wait with such patience as they could muster until the hour that had been agreed for Leaping Squirrel’s rescue. Fortunately, the garrison at French Mills kept early hours. One by one the lights in the other cabins went out, then they doused theirs and sat on the hard bed, with their arms about each other, occasionally kissing or talking in low voices. The time of waiting seemed interminable, although they had decided that, to get as long a start as possible, they would make the attempt as soon as it could reasonably be assumed that the officers and men who lived in the stockade were asleep. At length, at about eleven o’clock, Roger felt that they must risk everything to carry out their plan.
Each of them took a bundle and Roger, in addition, threw over his shoulder the rope he had made and the straw palliasse from the bed. Walking as quietly as they could, they made their way along the track through the wood until it ended a hundred yards or so from the fort. There, in the shadow of the last trees, Roger left Mary with the two bundles and continued on toward the stockade.
Since the river bank for several miles on either side of the fort was a high cliff, it was almost impossible to take French Mills by surprise, so no sentries were posted, except for one man inside the now closed sally port, and he was stationed there only to open it in the event of a despatch rider arriving during the night. Taking care not to tread on any small fallen branches, Roger advanced until he reached the large stone he had left outside the palisade. There he took from his pocket a whistle made from the wing bone of a turkey, which Leaping Squirrel had given him to signal with. He blew gently on it, so that the sound should not be audible at a distance of more than a dozen paces. It was answered from the other side of the palisade by the low hoot of an owl.
Standing well back, Roger threw the straw palliasse up so that it landed on the spikes of the eight-foot-high stakes forming the palisade. He threw after it one end of the rope, then tied the other end round his waist, so that he could take a strain upon it. A moment later it became taut and he caught the sound of a faint scrambling noise, then Leaping Squirrel’s head appeared above the mattress. Wriggling over it, he slid down to Roger’s side.
Five minutes later they were with Mary. The two men took the bundles and, in Indian file with Leaping Squirrel leading, they set off, three silent shadows, into the almost dark woods.
For about two hours the moon, filtering through the bare branches of the trees, continued to give them just enough light to see their way. By the time it set they were sufficiently distant from the camp for there to be no risk of their being seen on the open ground along the cliffs by any restless person who had left his quarters to go for a midnight stroll; and, for the remainder of the night, the dim illumination from lingering patches of snow enabled them to press on without any danger of walking over the edge of the cliff. By dawn, although leaning on Roger’s arm, Mary had to admit that she could not go a step further. But her dogged courage had enabled them to cover the better part of fifteen miles.
As it was unlikely that Leaping Squirrel’s escape would be discovered before dawn, and after that some little time would elapse before a party of trackers could be sent in pursuit, they reckoned that their night march had given them about eight hours’ start. Having rested for ten minutes every hour, Mary had been able to keep going, but Roger realised that unless fatigue should overcome her later, they must now sacrifice several hours of their lead; so he called a halt and they made camp.
At ten o’clock, after a good sleep, they roused and Roger set about collecting sticks so that they could get a fire going and cook a meal. But Leaping Squirrel stopped him, giving the disquieting reason that they were in Mohawk country, and the smoke of a fire might be seen by an Indian out hunting. If that happened, he would fetch others, and they would be lucky if they were not scalped and killed.
Having made do on cold food, they set off again, re-entering the forest, as the river curved away in a great arc at the place where they had slept, and Leaping Squirrel told them it would save many miles if they cut across it. After they had penetrated for some way among the trees, the Indian asked them to wait where they were for a while. He then padded to and fro, sometimes disappearing for several minutes; but at length he beckoned them to follow him. When they had done so for two hundred yards or more, he pointed to a gash about five feet up on a big tree, where the bark had been chipped away. Turning east, he walked on some distance, then pointed to a similar gash on another big tree, and told them these were the marks by which he had blazed a trail on his outward journey, so that he could easily find his way back.
Just as evening was closing in, he stopped beside one of the blazed trees which also bore a buzzard feather wedged in the bark. With a stout stick, which he had picked up an hour or so earlier, he began to dig in the earth behind the tree, and soon turned up a foot-long package. Unwrapping a covering of elk skin, he showed them a chunk of dried bear meat and some strips of pemmican. Roger was delighted at this unexpected addition to their supplies as, although they had brought all the food Mary had had in the cabin, he had feared it would not last them for more than a few days; and his pistols were useless for hunting, owing to their short range.
After eating, they slept for some hours. When they awoke, moonlight lit the glade, so they made the most of it to cover several more miles; then, when the moon set, they slept again.
Half-way through their second day’s trek, Leaping Squirrel, who always led the party, suddenly halted, swung round and put his finger to his lips to enjoin silence. He then signed to them to take cover among some blackberry bushes, which were the only low-growing vegetation within sight. Reluctantly, but seeing, from the alarmed expression on the Indian’s face, that danger threatened, they waded in among the long, prickly stems and crouched down among them.
For several minutes Roger and Mary could hear nothing, although they listened intently. Then they caught the faint sound of snapping twigs. Peering out from their hiding place they saw a dozen figures some twenty yards away. It was a party of Mohawk warriors, moving silently in single file and resembling a band of gliding spectres.
Fortunately they were heading in the direction of the river, but a good ten minutes elapsed before Leaping Squirrel signed to his companions that they might leave their cover. They emerged from the tangle of bushes with several nasty scratches, and Roger’s buckskin leggings had been badly torn on a cat briar.
Roger and Mary feared that the Indians they had glimpsed were trackers sent out from French Mills. Leaping Squirrel reassured them that the men were a party of hunters intent on their own business, and to be avoided only because they might have proved hostile. But, he added grimly, their lead must be lessening, as they had to take much longer rests than the trackers would need, and the time had come when they must try to hide their trail by wading in a lake which he knew lay a few miles head.
That evening they came to it and, for a quarter of an hour, splashed through the bitterly cold water along its shore, entering and leaving it several times to confuse their pursuers.
Now that the danger of capture had become ominously nearer, Roger could not keep his mind off that possibility. It would certainly mean death for Leaping Squirrel. There was no way of preventing that. But what would happen to himself and Mary after they had been marched back to French Mills?
Colonel Jason could hardly have failed to connect their disappearance with Leaping Squirrel’s escape on the same night. In any case, their being captured with him would be indisputable evidence of it. What, Roger wondered, was the penalty for assisting an enemy spy to escape? Almost certainly a sentence of several months in prison. But would matters end even there? At French Mills there was no prison, so he would be sent down to Albany, or perhaps New York. A trial would also lead to an investigation of his past. It would emerge that the document stating him to be a surveyor in the employ of the Ministry of Rivers and Forests was a forgery; and, quite possibly, that he was an Englishman. The discovery of his nationality, together with the fact that he had secured a guide known to be a spy to get him over the frontier into Canada would lead to the assumption that he, too, was a spy. The possible result could be, not months, but years in prison, or worse.
And what of Mary? It was hardly likely that they would imprison her. But she would be stranded. As the van Wycks knew the truth about them, they would almost certainly help her. Even so, she could not live on them indefinitely. She would have to take some dreary job in a shop, or become a dressmaker, and live in constant misery at the thought of him in prison.
It was not to be wondered at that, during their third day in the forest, Roger was constantly looking over his shoulder, and frequently tempted to force the pace. But he could not do that for, although gallant little Mary trudged doggedly on, she had now to lean on his arm for most of the time, and was fast approaching exhaustion.
At last, on the Friday, their fourth day after leaving French Mills, they emerged from the forest to see again the valley through which the St. Lawrence ran. A high cliff still prevented them from getting down to the river, but Roger heaved a great sigh of relief when Leaping Squirrel told him that within two hours they would be across it.
After walking for a little over a mile, the Indian led them to the edge of the cliff and pointed to the right. Immediately below them were rapids with water foaming between a number of big, flattish rocks, and nearer the bank several large, swirling pools. But further along the cliff was rugged and broken, where there had been a landslide, making it possible to climb down to the water, and there it was smooth.
For some minutes they gazed down at the river; then, just as they turned away, a great bald-headed eagle swooped, screeching, down upon them. Evidently its nest was below the place where they were standing on the edge of the cliff, and it feared they were about to harm its young.
Mary gave a cry of fright and swiftly backed away from the big, terrifying bird. Next second she uttered a piercing scream. She had retreated too far and put a foot over the cliff edge. Roger dashed forward, but was too late to grab her. Flinging himself flat, he looked over, praying that she might have landed on a ledge. But she had not. His eyes starting from his head, he saw her, a whirling bundle of furs, hurtling downward until, with a great splash, she hit one of the pools and disappeared.