12 In the General’s Tent

When the Indians darted yelling into the forest, Culverhouse stood staring after them, his mouth open, and his gun swinging in one hand.

“Have you been wounded, Culverhouse?” I asked, seizing him by the arm. The expression on his face alarmed me.

“No,” he replied, “I was merely thinking what extraordinarily unmusical voices those savages have!”

“Well, I hope it is the last time either you or I will hear them,” I said.

“You speak like a wise man,” he replied.

Then we turned our attention to the soldiers. They were gathering in a confused huddle, and there was a jangle of voices, as if all the Dutch wives in New York were talking at once. The wounded officer was leaning against a tree, looking very faint. His fine red coat was grievously spattered with blood.

“Selwyn,” said Culverhouse, going up to him, “I am very glad to see you, but loath to know that you are wounded, and that, too, in such an irregular sort of warfare.”

“Ah! it is you, Culverhouse,” said the wounded officer, showing more animation. “You are right in condemning this mode of fighting. It is irregular, very irregular. Were it not for that, this ball through my shoulder would not pain me so sorely. And to think I did not so much as see our enemies! It passes all human patience, and gives one a certain distaste for the noble art of war.”

These brief condolences were very elevating to the spirits of both, and Selwyn appeared to forget his wound, which proved to be not serious.

Three of the soldiers had paid the forfeit of their lives for their carelessness, and a half dozen others had wounds, though slight in most cases. Had it not been for Zeb’s warning, I am sure the loss would have been much heavier. One slain savage was found in the bushes. More than a dozen soldiers claimed to have shot him, but I believe if the bullet that took his life had been measured it would have been found a nice fit for the barrel of Zebedee Crane’s rifle.

We joined the main army the next morning, and right glad were Culverhouse and I to see again the splendid force of England and her great colonies. What were a few skulking savages now? An hour after our arrival a sergeant bade us come to the tent of General Abercrombie, the commander in chief.

The general’s marquee had been raised upon a little hill. It was large, and decorated with much gayety of color. Over it the flag of Britain flaunted proudly in the wind. Many officers, mostly young and in brilliant uniforms, were lounging about. We saw Major McLean near, and he gave us a kindly nod. Then we followed the sergeant into the tent.

General Abercrombie was reposing in a half-sitting and comfortable posture in a kind of hammock that was swung from the tent poles. Several officers of high rank were present. The tent was furnished with a surprising degree of luxury. A thick, soft carpet had even been spread over the turf.

General Abercrombie raised himself a little when we entered.

“Are these the gentlemen of whom you spoke, Panmure, the gentlemen who had the little encounter with the red allies of the French?” he asked languidly of one of the officers. He seemed to have forgotten me completely.

“These are the gentlemen,” replied the officer, “and as they have been in advance of us, and, moreover, have encountered the enemy, I thought perhaps they might have useful information.”

Culverhouse and I had removed our hats. Zebedee allowed his fur cap to remain upon his head. General Abercrombie at once noticed this slight upon his position and dignity.

“Are you aware, sir, that you are in the presence of the general in chief? Why do you not take off your cap?” he asked in a heightened voice of Zebedee.

“I can’t,” replied Zebedee.

“Can’t! What do you mean?” asked the general.

“It’s growed there,” replied Zebedee.

“Pah!” exclaimed the general in a tone of mighty disgust. “I thought you told me, Panmure, that the boy was possessed of great keenness and intelligence. He seems to be a complete fool, the most thorough fool I ever met, and the Lord knows I have seen some comprehensive fools in my time.”

I looked at Zeb. The boy’s appearance, in truth, had changed, or rather he had resumed the expression which marked him the first time I saw him, the vacant, staring eyes and the lank, fallen features.

“Pah! the boy is a lack-wit!” repeated the general.

“If you will pardon me for speaking, general,” I said, “the lad is a master of woodcraft, and both Lieutenant Culverhouse and I owe our lives to his skill and courage.”

“It is so,” said Culverhouse with emphasis.

“Even granting that to be true, I am yet to ascertain if he has been or will be of any service to us,” replied the general.

I felt a flush of anger at the gratuitous insult, but I merely bowed, for it was the commander in chief who had spoken. Nor did the smothered laugh of some of the officers make us feel more comfortable.

“You were somewhat in advance of the army, exploring for the enemy?” asked the general.

I bowed again.

“I would infer from what I have heard that you succeeded in finding the enemy,” said the general ironically.

I bowed a third time.

“What, then, can you report concerning them?” he asked.

“We were surprised by the savages,” I replied in a respectful tone, “and, as I have said, escaped only through the skill and courage of this boy. The woods are full of these savages, the allies of the French, who know how to make themselves invisible to us, and at the same time observe all our movements.”

“Do you think,” asked the general in a very choleric tone, “that I care how many of these skulking Indians may be watching our march? Do you think that I care a farthing, sir, even if they had been watching me all the way from New York, and should continue to watch me until I camp in the citadel at Quebec?”

I was taken aback by this outburst, and all I could do was to resort to the ready and noncommittal bow.

“They seem to take us for children over here, eh, Panmure?” said the general, turning to the officers.

The officers laughed.

I was the only American present except Zebedee. Nevertheless, I was pleased with myself. I had kept my temper, and General Abercrombie had lost his.

Having had his fling at us, he seemed somewhat mollified, and asked a number of questions about our skirmish.

“You seem to have fared rather badly,” he said.

“But these savages fight in a most irregular manner,” said Culverhouse. “I do not believe there is a single rule in the military treatises that they do not violate.”

“That is what ails all the campaigns in this pestiferous country,” said the general in a pettish tone. “Nothing is done according to the rules that have been perfected by ages of thought and practice. I have served in France and the Low Countries. Honor and glory are to be won there. There you fight with gentlemen and against gentlemen. But here your allies are lank lack-wits, like this boy, and your enemies are savages and renegade Frenchmen, whom you can not find. You march through a wilderness. There are no roads, no towns, nothing to lend a pleasant savor to the troubles and dangers of a soldier’s life. By my faith, gentlemen, it is a most ungrateful task, and the only pleasant thing about it is the knowledge that we will soon be in Quebec and put an end to it all.”

The officers applauded these words, which were spoken in a high tone. This appeared to soothe General Abercrombie, whose features relapsed into an appearance of content.

“You had not finished your most interesting story, Montague, when these gentlemen entered,” he said, turning to one of the younger officers. “You stopped at the critical moment when the duke found the earl’s letter to the duchess.”

There was nothing more for us to do but to make our bows, which received but slight acknowledgment, and leave the marquee. I looked about for Lord Howe, but I was told later that he was with Rogers’s Rangers exploring the country. As we passed out I heard Montague take up the thread of his interesting narrative.

“He said he had seen some big fools in his time,” whispered Zebedee Crane in my ear. “Lordy, an’ so have I, an’ I ain’t near as old as he is neither.”

I rejoined my regiment, and an hour later, as I was passing about the camp, some one tapped me on the shoulder. I turned about and beheld the face of the omnipresent Martin Groot grinning at me in that irritating fashion of his, which seemed to say, “Misfortunes are happening, and I am enjoying myself greatly.”

“Ah, it is you, Mynheer Groot,” I said, affecting a certain warmth of welcome. “I thought you were a man of most peaceful disposition given up to gainful commerce, and here I behold you on the edge of war.”

“So I am a man of peace,” replied Martin, “and I admit that I am keen to appreciate the value of pounds and shillings. Even here I am pursuing both peace and pounds.”

“How so?” I asked.

“Well, as for the first,” he replied, “you must remember that we have not changed commanders in chief yet.”

“We have Abercrombie in place of Loudoun,” I replied.

“The name is changed, that is all,” he replied. “And as for the second proposition—namely, pounds—an army like this requires many supplies, and that means contracts. Contracts mean pounds, and here am I, Martin Groot, merchant, to earn the pounds, a task in which I am meeting with the most satisfactory success.”

“You appear to take a very sordid view of the war,” I said.

“I am likely to reap much more substantial advantages from it than you are,” he said contentedly, “and if by any accident there should be fighting, I shall be very far in the rear when it is done. I make no disguise of my calling, and I suspect that my business will come to a much more fortunate end than General Abercrombie’s will.”

“You are the same ill-omened prophet that you were in New York,” I said.

“I use my eyes; I see and I think,” he replied curtly. “Do likewise. You will find much profit in it.”

Then he left me.

After remaining a month in camp at the head of the lake, the army made another great heave and embarked for the passage preparatory to the assault on Ticonderoga. It was heavy work to get us into the boats, of which there were more than a thousand, without counting those that carried the artillery, but start we did at last.

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