Chapter XI - Page 2

big wave washed him down again. He fell on his side in a shallow, but rose and ran wearily over a soft beach. In the blackness around me I could see nothing. A branch whipped me in the face, and I ducked. I was not quick enough; it was like fencing in the dark. A big bough hit me, raking the withers of my horse, and I rolled off headlong in a lot of bushes. The horse went on, out of hearing, but I was glad enough to lie still, for I had begun to know of my bruises. In a few minutes I took off my boots and emptied them, and wrung my blouse, and lay back, cursing my ill luck.

But that year of 1813 had the kick of ill fortune in it for every mother's son of us there in the North country. I have ever noticed that war goes in waves of success or failure; If we had had Brown or Scott to lead us that year, instead of Wilkinson, I believe it had had a better history. Here was I in the enemy's country. God knew where, or how, or when I should come out of it. I thought of D'ri and how it had gone with him in that hell of waters. I knew it would be hard to drown him. We were so near shore, if he had missed the rocks I felt sure he would come out safely. I thought of Louison and Louise, and wondered if ever I should see them again. Their faces shone upon me there in the windy darkness, and one as brightly as the other. Afterwhiles I drew my wet blouse over me and went asleep, shivering.

A familiar sound woke me--that of the reveille. The sun was shining, the sky clear, the wind had gone down. A crow sat calling in a tree above my head. I lay in a strip of timber, thin and narrow, on the lake shore. Through the bushes I could see the masts of the brig slanting out of water some rods away. Beyond the timber was a field of corn, climbing a side-hill that sloped off to a level, grassy plain. Beyond the hill-top, reveille was still sounding. A military camp was near me, and although I made no move, my mind was up and busy as the drumsticks over the hill. I sat as quiet as a cat at a mouse-hole, looking down at my uniform, not, indeed, the most healthful sort of dress for that country. All at once I caught sight of a scarecrow in the corn. I laughed at the odd grotesquery of the thing--an old frock-coat and trousers of olive-green, faded and torn and fat with straw. A stake driven through its collar into the earth, and crowned with an ancient, tall hat of beaver, gave it a backbone. An idea came to me. I would rob the scarecrow and hide my uniform. I ran out and hauled it over, and pulled the stuffing out of it. The coat and trousers were made for a stouter man. I drew on the latter, fattening my figure with straw to fill them. That done, I quickly donned the coat. Each sleeve-end fell to my fingertips, and its girth would have circled a flour-barrel and buttoned with room to spare. But with my stuffing of straw it came around me as snug at the belt as the coat of a bear. I took alarm as I closed the buttons. For half a minute I had heard a