24 A Compromise

“Wake up! wake up!” said Captain Stearns, the chief of our detachment, as he gave me a sound shake. “Here’s a chance for active service.”

Fifty in number, we moved farther up the river to watch for the French skirmishers, who had been active for days in an effort to annoy us beyond endurance and break up our camp. I determined to keep a good watch, so far as my part was concerned, since I had no mind to leave my body in the forest fallen in some petty skirmish. I wished for Zeb, who was an adept at such business, but they told me he had gone on a long scout behind the French army.

We took position in a bit of woods close to the river. The place seemed favorable. We had the river on one side of us and some open ground on the other. Here we began our long and tedious watch. I hate the hours between midnight and day, and I am never awake then if I can help it. But this time I could not help it, and I paced up and down the woods, Listening and looking, but hearing nothing and seeing nothing of moment.

The fitful bombardment had ceased for the night. Toward Montcalm’s camp and the city all was quiet, and our own army, too, seemed to be sleeping. I could only hear the plash of the river and the rustling of the leaves as the wind blew through them. These gentle noises were soothing, and they encouraged sleep. I had just awakened from one sound nap before coming on guard, but I longed for another. It was hard to fight off sleep, and I kept stirring that I might not be overcome.

“I think we’ve been sent too far up,” said Captain Stearns in a discontented tone as we stood together near the edge of the wood. “It’s no use to extend the lines so far.”

I did not presume to dispute the words of my superior, but, having had some experience in bush warfare, I thought him wrong. We walked up and down together, noting the men, who seemed wakeful and alert. We approached the bank of the river, which at this point was not more than pistol shot across. The opposite shore was densely wooded with fir and birch, and formed an admirable covert from which the French could have picked us off had there been light enough to disclose our forms. Studying it intently, I could not see the slightest movement there, and I walked back to Captain Stearns, who had returned already to the other edge of the wood.

We whiled away the time in low talk or in rounds of inspection. The night had grown very dark, and at last I went back to the river again, though alone. The trees on the other side were scarce visible. The water itself had turned a dark lead. In the silence and the darkness its steady plash had a louder sound. I listened to it a little while, and then I could have sworn that I heard another plash up the stream. Though not suspicious in itself, it was a new sound, and it attracted my attention. I approached the brink as closely as I dared and listened. I heard the strange plash again and then again. I was confident that it was made by oars, and, looking up the stream, I seemed to see a dark shadow crossing its current. It was followed quickly by another.

I rushed in all haste to Captain Stearns and told him what I had seen and heard. He gathered our force together hastily and was not a minute too soon, for the forms of men seemed to rise from the grass and a numerous body of the French charged directly upon us, firing their muskets and rifles and shouting like savages, the latter to confuse and frighten us. It was, in truth, a most terrifying moment, the darkness, the half surprise, the shots, and the yelling numbing our senses for the moment.

But it was only for the moment. The captain had received a bullet in his left shoulder, but he was a brave man and not without presence of mind. He shouted to his men to spring behind the trees, and I added my shouts to his.

We sheltered ourselves and poured a volley into the advancing French, which reduced their number and caused the others to hesitate. But they recovered presently, and attempted to rush us again. This hesitation was their undoing, for some of our fastest men had reloaded their rifles and gave them a second volley, which turned their faces in the other direction. Evidently they had expected to surprise us, and were not prepared for such ready and effective resistance.

We were carried away by our success, and our men in their enthusiasm shouted to charge the retreating French. All of us took it up, and after them we went pellmell. They sent back at us many shots, a few of which hit, while most did not, but we continued our pursuit, making a good deal of noise and encouraging each other to run faster.

I singled out one man who was borne away in the press of the fleeing Frenchmen, but who seemed to run with them most unwillingly, for often he shouted to them to stop, and struck one with the flat of a sword. I own that I was infected by the excitement of the chase, and I marked this man as my particular game. One who did not care to keep out of our way and who was not willing to run as fast as other Frenchmen ought to be captured.

Both sides fired in a scattering way, but the number of shots diminished as we ran, and the darkness and uncertainty of the ground made them ineffective. Both sides spread out, hut I kept the tall officer in view, determined that he should not escape me. The ground was very rough, and I tumbled over once on my hands and knees, greatly to their damage, but my enthusiasm withstood it all. I was up again and in hot and zealous pursuit of my man, who was endeavoring to stop two Frenchmen running by his side. But the two darted off into the bushes, and I saw them no more. When I looked around for my comrades they too were gone. They had scattered in every direction after the scattering Frenchmen, and it was easy to lose sight of them in the night. My own particular Frenchman and myself held the field, so far as we were concerned.

Finding himself deserted by his comrades, he slackened his pace. He stepped lightly across a brook, still holding his sword in his hand and then looking back for the first time since his men had left him, saw me in eager pursuit. I will admit, however, that my eagerness had diminished somewhat since the pursuing army, so far as my range of sight was concerned, was reduced to myself. Nevertheless I could not in honor turn back. So, holding my cocked pistol in my hand, I urged on the pursuit.

He looked back at me again, and then slowed down to a walk. He was a tall and large man, and seemed to be very athletic, but I reasoned that a loaded pistol is always better than a sword at the proper distance. As he was walking and I was running, I gained very fast, and I shouted to him to stop, waving my pistol in a very significant manner. Obedient to my command, he stopped and took a seat very composedly on a large bowlder.

“You are my prisoner!” I said, rushing up to him.

“It might be possible for me to make you mine,” he said, “but I am willing to discuss the matter with you.”

The voice was familiar, and, looking more clearly, I recognized the large, calm features of the Seigneur Raymond de St. Maur.

I was astonished, but not altogether displeased.

“I was not expecting to see you,” he said.

“Nor I you.”

“But I am glad to see you nevertheless.”

“And I to see you.”

“My night attack has failed,” said the seigneur regretfully.

“I am sure it is no fault of yours,” I said, feeling in a measure sorry for him.

“I might have made the attack on some other party had I known you were there,” he said with all a Frenchman’s politeness.

“It has turned out very well as it is,” I could not refrain from replying.

“Do you still regard me as your prisoner?” he asked with a smile.

His question was somewhat perplexing. If my shot missed or wounded but slightly, he could chop me into little pieces with his long sword. Besides, I had no desire either to wound the father of Louise or to take him a prisoner into our camp.

“I have reconsidered the matter,” I said at last; “I do not claim you.”

“That is better,” he said with another smile, “because I was of another opinion, and it would be a pity for two such good friends as you and I to disagree.”

The risks of the encounter certainly looked large, and with those risks I salved my conscience.

“We will make a truce for the present,” he said.

I was willing, and suggested that it would be wise for him to recross the Montmorency and rejoin Montcalm at once. He approved of the suggestion, and we walked together toward the river. I thought that I could protect him from our troopers should we meet any, while he could act in a similar capacity for me should we meet any of his.

“My compliments to Mlle. Louise, your daughter,” I said as we walked along.

“She will be glad to hear that you are safe,” he said gravely.

I did not venture any further upon that subject, and presently we heard the plash of the waters of the Montmorency.

“I think you have come far enough with me,” said the seigneur. “I know how to recross in ease and safety, and in parting I desire to say that I wish you the best luck in the world, Lieutenant Charteris.”

I wished him the same, and, shaking hands with mutual good will, we separated.

But as he left I put to him another question.

“Did Pierre bring you my hat?” I asked.

“He did.”

“Was the proof that he had done his duty sufficient?”

“It was. Pierre is a faithful fellow and devoted to France.”

Then his figure disappeared from my sight.

I returned to our original camp, and on my way met Captain Steams, who was delighted with our success despite his wound, which was slight. We had not suffered much in the skirmish, and soon got our men together in the grove, where we kept watch until day without further incident.

On the following afternoon, when I was on watch at the same post, we saw some one appear in the woods on the opposite bank holding up a small white flag. The figure of the man who held the flag seemed at the distance rotund and unmilitary, and we wondered what he wanted, but Captain Stearns, whom a little wound could not keep from duty, made a suitable reply to the signal, bidding him to come and to state his message. He descended the bank and climbed into a small canoe that had been hidden in the bushes. Then I saw that the messenger was my good and plump friend Father Michel.

The good man did not seem to rush in any mad haste upon his errand. He paddled slowly and cast many uneasy looks upon the woods that lined our side of the river. His little white flag he had stuck in the bow of his boat, where it could not fail to be conspicuous.

As I spoke French, I suggested to Captain Stearns that I descend the chalk cliff and meet the father. He agreed, and I scrambled down. When Father Michel saw me standing ready to receive him his round, rosy face was illumined with joy.

“I am happy to see you, Lieutenant Charteris,” he cried. “I feared that you would not be here.”

“The joy is mine to see you, Father Michel,” I said. “Nothing but an errand of good could bring you here.”

“I don’t know whether the seigneur would call it good or not if he heard of it,” he said doubtfully. “But are you sure none of your sharpshooters are aiming at me from the wood up there? It seems to me I see a gun muzzle. Remember that my profession is the Church, and not arms.”

I assured the good man that nobody would shoot at him while he was under the protection of the white flag, and he paddled to shore.

“Mlle. de St. Maur has heard of the encounter you had with her father,” he said, “and she sends you this note.”

He handed me a little envelope, which I opened in haste and eagerness, reading upon a piece of paper this line, “I am grateful,” and signed “Louise”—just Louise, not a formal “Louise de St. Maur.”

I was tempted to kiss it, but that would have been ridiculous in such a place. Moreover, Steams just then came stumbling down the hillside and wanted to know what was in the note. He was within his right, and I showed it to him. He grinned.

“That’s a love letter, Charteris,” he said.

He gave Father Michel a sly smile, and the priest returned it in the same sly fashion. But Stearns was a good fellow.

“Put it in your pocket, Charteris,” he said, “and we’ll say no more about your treasonable correspondence with the enemy.”

I did as I was bid, and he was gentleman enough not to allude to the letter again.

“I’ll go now,” said Father Michel, “though I am not sure of the seigneur if he should find out what I have done.”

I encouraged him, telling him that the seigneur would know nothing about it, and in good spirits he climbed back into his canoe, but gave us a parting injunction to restrain our sharpshooters.

We watched him drag himself painfully up the farther cliff and disappear among the woods.

Good Father Michel, you were a brave man and a wise one!

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