Laura Secord, the heroine of 1812 Part 10

Nor bridge, nor stone, nor log, how shall I cross?

Yon o'erturned hemlock, whose wide-spreading root Stands like a wattled pier from which the bridge Springs all abrupt and strait, and hangs withal So high that hardihood itself looks blank-- I scarce may tempt, worn as I am, and spent.

And on the other bank, the great green head Presents a wilderness of tangled boughs By which would be a task, indeed, to reach The ground. Yet must I try. Poor hands, poor feet, This is rough work for you, and one small slip Would drop me in the stream, perchance to drown.

Not drown! oh, no, my goal was set by Heaven.

Come, rally all ye forces of the will, And aid me now! Yon height that looms above Is yet to gain before the sun gets low.

(_She climbs the hemlock root and reaches the trunk, across which she crawls on her hands and knees, and at last finds herself some yards up the beech ridge. After arranging her torn and dishevelled clothing she proceeds up the ridge, at the top of which she encounters a British sentry, who challenges_.)

_Sentry_. Who goes there?

_Mrs. Secord_. A friend.

_Sentry_. What friend?

_Mrs. Secord_. To Canada and Britain.

_Sentry_. Your name and errand.

_Mrs. Secord_. My name is Secord--Captain Secord's wife, Who fought at Queenston;--and my errand is To Beaver Dam to see Fitzgibbon, And warn him of a sortie from Fort George To move to-night. Five hundred men, with guns, And baggage-waggons for the spoil, are sent.

For, with such force, the enemy is sure Our stores are theirs; and Stoney Creek avenged.

_Sentry_. Madam, how know you this?

_Mrs. Secord_. I overheard Some Yankee soldiers, pa.s.sing in and out With all a victor's license of our hearths, Talk of it yesternight, and in such wise No room for doubt remained. My husband wished To bear the news himself, but is disabled yet By those two wounds he got at Queenston Heights, And so the heavy task remained with me, Much to his grief.

_Sentry_. A heavy task indeed.

How got you past their lines?

_Mrs. Secord_. By many wiles; Those various arts that times like these entail.

_Sentry_. And then how got you here?

_Mrs. Secord_. I left my home At daybreak, and have walked through the deep woods The whole way since I left St. David's Mill.

_Sentry_. 'Tis past belief, did not your looks accord.

And still you have a weary way to go, And through more woods. Could I but go with you, How gladly would I! Such deed as yours Deserves more thanks than I can give. Pa.s.s, friend, All's well.

[MRS. SECORD _pa.s.ses the Sentry, who turns and walks with her_.

_Mrs. Secord_. There's naught to fear, I hope, but natural foes, Lynxes or rattlesnakes, upon my way.

_Sentry_. There are some Mohawks ambushed in the wood, But where I cannot quite point out; they choose Their ground themselves, but they are friends, though rough,-- Some of Kerr's band, Brant's son-in-law. You'll need To tell the chief your errand should you cross him.

_Mrs. Secord_. Thanks: for I rather fear our red allies.

Is there a piquet?

_Sentry_. No, not near me; our men are all too few-- A link goes to and fro 'twixt me and quarters, And is but just now left (_he turns sharp about)_.

My limit this-- Yonder your road (_he points to the woods)_.

G.o.d be wi' you. Good-bye.

_Mrs. Secord_. Good-bye, my friend.

[_Exit_ MRS. SECORD.

_Sentry_. A bold, courageous deed!

A very woman, too, tender and timid.

That country's safe whose women serve her cause With love like this. And blessed, too, it is, In having such for wives and mothers.

SCENE 4.--_The forest, with the sun nearly below the horizon, its rays illuminate the tops of the trees, while all below is dark and gloomy.

Bats are on the wing, the night-hawk careers above the trees, fire-flies flit about, and the death-bird calls_.

_Enter_ MRS. SECORD, _showing signs of great fatigue_.

_Mrs. Secord_. Gloomy, indeed, and weird, and oh, so lone!

In such a spot and hour the mind takes on Moody imaginings, the body shrinks as'twere, And all the being sinks into a sea Of deariness and doubt and death.

[_The call of the death-bird is heard_.

Thou little owl, that with despairing note Dost haunt these shades, art thou a spirit lost, Whose punishment it is to fright poor souls With fear of death?--if death is to be feared, And not a blank hereafter. The poor brave Who answers thee and hears no call respond, Trembles and pales, and wastes away and dies Within the year, thee making his fell arbiter.

Poor Indian! Much I fear the very dread Engendered by the small neglectful bird, Brings on the fate thou look'st for.

So fearless, yet so fearful, do we all, Savage and civil, ever prove ourselves; So strong, so weak, hurt by a transient sound, Yet bravely stalking up to meet the death We see.

[_A prolonged howl is heard in the distance_.

The wolves! the dreadful wolves! they've scented me.

O whither shall I fly? no shelter near; No help. Alone! O G.o.d, alone!

[_She looks wildly round for a place to fly to. Another howl is heard_.

O Father! not this death, if I must die, My task undone, 'tis too, too horrible!

[_Another howl as of many wolves, but at a distance; she bends to listen, her hand upon her heart_.

Be still, wild heart, nor fill my list'ning ears With thy deep throbs.

[_The howl of the wolves is again heard, but faintly_.

Thank G.o.d, not me they seek!

Some other scent allures the ghoulish horde.

On, on, poor trembler! life for life it is, If I may warn Fitzgibbon.

[_She steps inadvertently into a little pool, hastily stoops and drinks gladly_.

Oh blessed water! To my parched tongue More precious than were each bright drop a gem From far Golconda's mine; how at thy touch The parting life comes back, and hope returns To cheer my drooping heart!