Rolf In The Woods

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That night he camped sixty miles from Ticonderoga, but he was
resolved to cover the distance in one day. Had he not promised to
be back in a week? The older hands had shaken their heads
incredulously, and he, in the pride of his legs, was determined
to be as good as his promise. He scarcely dared sleep lest he
should oversleep. At ten he lay down. At eleven the moon was due
to rise; as soon as that was three hours high there would be
light enough, and he proposed to go on. At least half a dozen
times he woke with a start, fearing he had overslept, but
reassured by a glance at the low-hung moon, he had slumbered
again.

At last the moon was four hours high, and the woods were plain in
the soft light. A horned owl "hoo-hoo-ed," and a far- off wolf
uttered a drawn-out, soft, melancholy cry, as Rolf finished his
dried meat, tightened his belt, and set out on a long, hard run
that, in the days of Greece, would have furnished the theme of
many a noble epic poem.

No need to consult his compass. The blazing lamp of the dark sky
was his guide, straight east his course, varied a little by hills
and lakes, but nearly the crow-flight line. At first his pace was
a steady, swinging stride; then after a mile he came to an open
lake shore down which he went at a six-mile trot; and then an
alder thicket through which his progress was very slow; but that
soon passed, and for half a mile he splashed through swamps with
water a foot deep: nor was he surprised at length to see it open
into a little lake with a dozen beaver huts in view. "Splash,
prong" their builders went at his approach, but he made for the
hillside; the woods were open, the moonlight brilliant now, and
here he trotted at full swing as long as the way was level or
down, but always walked on the uphill. A sudden noise ahead was
followed by a tremendous crashing and crackling of the brush. For
a moment it continued, and what it meant, Rolf never knew or
guessed.

"Trot, trot," he went, reeling off six miles in the open, two or
perhaps three in the thickets, but on and on, ever eastward. Hill
after hill, swamp after swamp, he crossed, lake after lake he
skirted round, and, when he reached some little stream, he sought
a log bridge or prodded with a pole till he found a ford and
crossed, then ran a mile or two to make up loss of time.

Tramp, tramp, tramp, and his steady breath and his steady heart
kept unremitting rhythm.

Rolf Makes a Record

Twelve miles were gone when the foreglow -- the first cold
dawn-light showed, and shining across his path ahead was a mighty
rolling stream. Guided by the now familiar form of Goodenow Peak
he made for this, the Hudson's lordly flood. There was his raft
securely held, with paddle and pole near by, and he pushed off
with all the force of his young vigour. Jumping and careening
with the stream in its freshet flood, the raft and its hardy
pilot were served with many a whirl and some round spins, but the
long pole found bottom nearly everywhere, and not ten minutes
passed before the traveller sprang ashore, tied up his craft,
then swung and tramped and swung.

Over the hills of Vanderwhacker, under the woods of Boreas.
Tramp, tramp, splash, tramp, wringing and sopping, but strong and
hot, tramp, tramp, tramp, tramp. The partridge whirred from his
path, the gray deer snorted, and the panther sneaked aside.
Tramp, tramp, trot, trot, and the Washburn Ridge was blue against
the sunrise. Trot, trot, over the low, level, mile-long slope he
went, and when the Day- god burnt the upper hill-rim he was by
brown Tahawus flood and had covered eighteen miles.

By the stream he stopped to drink. A partridge cock, in the pride
of spring, strutted arrogantly on a log. Rolf drew his pistol,
fired, then hung the headless body while he made a camper's
blaze: an oatcake, the partridge, and river water were his meal.
His impulse was to go on at once. His reason, said "go slow." So
he waited for fifteen minutes. Then again, beginning with a slow
walk, he ere long added to his pace. In half an hour he was
striding and in an hour the steady "trot, trot," that slackened
only for the hills or swamps. In an hour more he was on the
Washburn Ridge, and far away in the east saw Schroon Lake that
empties in the river Schroon; and as he strode along, exulting in
his strength, he sang in his heart for joy. Again a gray wolf
cantered on his trail, and the runner laughed, without a thought
of fear. He seemed to know the creature better now; knew it as a
brother, for it gave no hostile sound, but only seemed to trot,
trot, for the small joy of running with a runner, as a swallow or
an antelope will skim along by a speeding train. For an hour or
more it matched his pace, then left as though its pleasant stroll
was done, and Rolf kept on and on and on.

The spring sun soared on high, the day grew warm at noon. Schroon
River just above the lake was in his path, and here he stopped to
rest. Here, with the last of his oatcake and a little tea, he
made his final meal; thirty eight miles had he covered since he
rose; his clothes were torn, his moccasins worn, but his legs
were strong, his purpose sure; only twenty-two miles now, and his
duty would be done; his honours won. What should he do, push on
at once? No, he meant to rest an hour. He made a good fire by a
little pool, and using a great mass of caribou moss as a sponge,
he had a thorough rub-down. He got out his ever- ready needle and
put his moccasins in good shape; he dried his clothes and lay on
his back till the hour was nearly gone. Then he girded himself
for this the final run. He was weary, indeed, but he was far from
spent, and the iron will that had yearly grown in force was there
with its unconquerable support.

Slowly at start, soon striding, and at last in the famous jog
trot of the scout he went. The sky was blackened with clouds at
length, and the jealous, howling east wind rolled up in rain; the
spindrift blurred the way; the heavy showers of spring came down
and drenched him; but his pack was safe and he trotted on and on.
Then long, deep swamps of alder barred his path, and, guided only
by the compass, Rolf pushed in and through and ever east. Barely
a mile an hour in the thickest part he made, but lagged not;
drenched and footsore, warm and torn, but doggedly, steadily on.
At three he had made a scant seven miles; then the level, open
wood of Thunderbolt was reached and his stride became a run;
trot, trot, trot, at six-mile gait, for but fifteen miles
remained. Sustained, inspired, the bringer of good news, he
halted not and faltered not, but on and on.

Tramp tramp, tramp tramp -- endless, tireless, hour by hour. At
five he was on Thunder Creek, scarce eight miles more to the
goal; his limbs were sore, his feet were sore; bone tired was he,
but his heart was filled with joy

"News of battle, news of victory" he was bringing, and the
thought lent strength; the five mires passed, the way was plain
with good roads now, but the runner was so weary. He was
striding, his running was done, the sun was low in the west, his
feet were bleeding, the courier was brain worn and leg worn, but
he strode and strode. He passed by homes but heeded them not.

"Come in and rest," called one who saw nothing but a weary
traveller. Rolf shook his head, but gave no word and strode
along. A mile -- a short mile now; he must hold out; if he sat
down he feared he could not rise. He came at last in sight of the
fort; then, gathering all his force, he broke into a trot, weak,
so weak that had he fallen, he could scarcely have got up, and
slow, but faster than a walk: and so, as the red sun sank, he
passed the gate. He had no right to give tidings to any but the
general, yet they read it in his eyes. The guard broke into a
cheer, and trotting still, though reeling, Rolf had kept his
word, had made his run, had brought the news, and had safely
reached his goal.

Van Trumper's Again

Why should the scout bringing good news be differently received
from the one that brings the ill? He did not make, the news, he
simply did his duty; the same in both cases. He is merely the
telegraph instrument. Yet it is so ever. King Pharaoh slew the
bearer of ill-tidings; that was human nature. And General Hampton
brought in the tall stripling to his table, to honour him, to get
the fullest details, to glory in every item as though it all were
due to himself. Rolf's wonderful journey was dilated on, and in
the reports to Albany he was honourably mentioned for
exceptionally meritorious service as a bearer of despatches.

For three days Flying Kittering was hero of the post; then other
runners came with other news and life went on.

Hitherto the scouts had worn no uniform, but the execution of one
of their number, who was captured by the British and treated as a
spy, resulted in orders that all be formally enlisted and put in
uniform.

Not a few withdrew from the service; some, like Quonab,
reluctantly consented, but Rolf was developing the fighting
spirit, and was proud to wear the colours.

The drill was tedious enough, but it was of short duration for
him. Despatches were to go to Albany. The general, partly to
honour Rolf, selected him.

"Are you ready for another run, Kittering?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then prepare to start as soon as possible for Fort George and
Albany. Do you want a mate?"

"I should like a paddler as far as Fort George."

"Well, pick your man."

"Quonab."

And when they set out, for the first time Rolf was in the stern,
the post of guidance and command. So once more the two were
travelling again with Skookum in the bow. It was afternoon when
they started and the four-mile passage of the creek was slow, but
down the long, glorious vista of the noble George they went at
full canoe-flight, five miles an hour, and twenty-five miles of
the great fair-way were reeled and past when they lighted their
nightly fire.

At dawn-cry of the hawk they sped away, and in spite of a rising
wind they made six miles in two hours.

As they approached the familiar landing of Van Trumper's farm,
Skookum began to show a most zestful interest that recalled the
blackened pages of his past. "Quonab, better use that," and Rolf
handed a line with which Skookum was secured and thus led to make
a new record, for this was the first time in his life that he
landed at Van Trumper's without sacrificing a chicken in honour
of the joyful occasion.

They entered the house as the family were sitting down to
breakfast.

"Mein Hemel! mein Hemel! It is Rolf and Quonab; and vere is dot
tam dog? Marta, vere is de chickens? Vy, Rolf, you bin now a
giant, yah. Mein Gott, it is I am glad! I did tink der cannibals
you had eat; is it dem Canadian or cannibal? I tink it all one
the same, yah!"

Marta was actually crying, the little ones were climbing over
Rolf's knee, and Annette, tall and sixteen now, stood shyly by,
awaiting a chance to shake hands. Home is the abiding place of
those we love; it may be a castle or a cave, a shanty or a
chateau, a moving van, a tepee, or a canal boat, a fortress or
the shady side of a bush, but it is home, if there indeed we meet
the faces that are ever in the heart, and find the hands whose
touch conveys the friendly glow. Was there any other spot on
earth where he could sit by the fire and feel that "hereabout are
mine own, the people I love?" Rolf knew it now -- Van Trumper's
was his home.

Talks of the war, of disasters by land, and of glorious victories
on the sea, where England, long the unquestioned mistress of the
waves, had been humbled again and again by the dauntless seamen
of her Western blood; talks of big doings by the nation, and, yet
more interesting, small doings by the travellers, and the
breakfast passed all too soon. The young scout rose, for he was
on-duty, but the long rollers on the lake forbade the going
forth. Van's was a pleasant place to wait, but he chafed at the
delay; his pride would have him make a record on every journey.
But wait he must. Skookum tied safely to his purgatorial post
whined indignantly -- and with head cocked on one side, picked
out the very hen he would like to utilize -- as soon as released
from his temporary embarrassment. Quonab went out on a rock to
bum some tobacco and pray for calm, and Rolf, ever active,
followed Van to look over the stock and buildings, and hear of
minor troubles. The chimney was unaccountably given to smoking
this year. Rolf took an axe and with two blows cut down a
vigorous growth shrubbery that stood above the chimney on the
west, and the smoking ceased. Buck ox had a lame foot and would
allow no one even to examine it. But a skilful ox- handler easily
hobbles an ox, throws him near some small tree, and then, by
binding the lame foot to the tree, can have a free hand. It
proved a simple matter, a deep-sunk, rusty nail. And when the
nail was drawn and the place washed clean with hot brine, kind
nature was left in confidence to do the rest. They drifted back
to the house now. Tomas met them shouting out a mixture of Dutch
and English and holding by the cover Annette's book of the "Good
Girl." But its rightful owner rescued the precious volume and put
it on the shelf.

"Have you read it through, Annette?"

"Yes," was the reply, for she had learned to read before they
left Schuylerville.

"How do you like it?"

"Didn't like it a bit; I like 'Robinson Crusoe'," was the candid
reply.

The noon hour came, still the white rollers were pounding the
shore.

"If it does not calm by one o'clock I'll go on afoot."

So off he went with the packet, leaving Quonab to follow and
await his return at Fort George. In Schuyler settlement he spent
the night and at noon next day was in Albany.

How it stirred his soul to see the busy interest, the marching of
men, the sailing of vessels, and above all to hear of more
victories on the high seas. What mattered a few frontier defeats
in the north, when the arrogant foe that had spurned and insulted
them before the world had now been humbled again and again.

Young Van Cortlandt was away, but the governor's reception of him
reflected the electric atmosphere -- the country's pride in her sons.

Rolf had a matter of his own to settle. At the bookseller's he
asked for and actually secured a copy of the great book --
"Robinson Crusoe." It was with a thrilling feeling of triumph
that he wrote Annette's name in it and stowed it in his bag.

He left Albany next day in the gray dawn. Thanks to his uniform,
he got a twenty-five mile lift with a traveller who drove a fast
team, and the blue water was glinting back the stars when he
joined Quonab at Fort George, some sixty miles away.

In the calm betwixt star-peep and sun-up they were afloat. It was
a great temptation to stop at Hendrik's for a spell, but
breakfast was over, the water was calm, and duty called him. He
hallooed, then they drew near enough to hand the book ashore.
Skookum growled, probably at the hens, and the family waved their
aprons as he sped on. Thirty miles of lake and four miles of
Ticonderoga Creek they passed and the packet was delivered in
four days and three hours since leaving.

The general smiled and his short but amply sufficient praise was
merely, "You're a good 'un."

Scouting in Canada

"Thar is two things," said Si Sylvanne to the senate, "that every
national crisis is bound to show up: first, a lot o' dum fools in
command; second a lot o great commanders in the ranks. An'
fortunately before the crisis is over the hull thing is sure set
right, and the men is where they oughter be."

How true this was the nation was just beginning to learn. The
fools in command were already demonstrated, and the summer of
1813 was replete with additional evidence. May, June, and July
passed with many journeyings for Rolf and many times with sad
news. The disasters at Stony Creek, Beaver Dam, and Niagara were
severe blows to the army on the western frontier. In June on Lake
Champlain the brave but reckless Lieutenant Sidney Smith had run
his two sloops into a trap. Thus the Growler and the Eagle were
lost to the Americans, and strengthened by that much the British
navy on the lake.

Encouraged by these successes, the British north of Lake
Champlain made raid after raid into American territory,
destroying what they could not carry off.

Rolf and Quonab were sent to scout in that country and if
possible give timely notice of raiders in force.

The Americans were averse to employing Indians in warfare; the
British entertained no such scruples and had many red-skinned
allies. Quonab's case, however, was unusual, since he was
guaranteed by his white partner, and now he did good service, for
he knew a little French and could prowl among the settlers
without anyone suspecting him of being an American scout.

Thus he went alone and travelled far. He knew the country nearly
to Montreal and late in July was lurking about Odletown, when he
overheard scattered words of a conversation that made hin eager
for more. "Colonel Murray - - twelve hundred men -- four hundred
men --"

Meanwhile Rolf was hiding in the woods about La Colle Mill.
Company after company of soldiers he saw enter, until at least
five hundred were there. When night came down, he decided to risk
a scarer approach. He left the woods and walked cautiously across
the open lands about.

The hay had been cut and most of it drawn in, but there was in
the middle of the field a hay-cock. Rolf was near this when he
heard sounds of soldiers from the mill. Soon large numbers came
out, carrying their blankets. Evidently there was not room for
them in the mill, and they were to camp on the field.

The scout began to retreat when sounds behind showed that another
body of soldiers was approaching from that direction and he was
caught between the two. There was only one place to hide and that
was beneath the haycock. He lifted its edge and crawled under,
but it was full of thistles and brambles; indeed, that was why it
was left, and he had the benefit of all the spines about him.

His heart beat fast as he heard the clank of arms and the
trampling; they came nearer, then the voices became more
distinct. He heard unmistakable evidence too that both bodies
were camping for the night, and that he was nearly surrounded.
Not knowing what move was best he kept quiet. The men were
talking aloud, then they began preparing their beds and he heard
some one say, "There's a hay-cock; bring some of that."

A soldier approached to get an armful of the hay, but sputtered
out a chapter of malediction as his bare hands touched the masses
of thistle and briers. His companions laughed at his mishap. He
went to the fire and vowed he'd stick a brand in it and back he
came with a burning stick.

Rolf was all ready to make a dash for his life as soon as the
cover should take fire, and he peered up into the soldier's face
as the latter blew on the brand; but the flame had died, the
thistles were not dry, and the fire was a failure; so, growling
again, the soldier threw down the smoking stick and went away. As
soon as he was safely afar, Rolf gathered a handful of soil and
covered the red embers.

It was a critical moment and his waiting alone had saved him.

Two soldiers came with their blankets and spread them near. For a
time they smoked and talked. One of them was short of tobacco;
the other said, "Never mind, we'll get plenty in Plattsburg," and
they guffawed.

Then he heard, "As soon as the colonel" and other broken phrases.

It was a most difficult place for Rolf; he was tormented with
thistles in his face and down his neck; he dared not change his
position; and how long he must stay was a problem. He would try
to escape when all was still.

The nearer soldiers settled to rest now. All was very quiet when
Rolf cautiously peeped forth to see two dreadful things: first, a
couple of sentries pacing up and down the edges of the camp;
second, a broad, brilliant, rising moon. How horrible that lovely
orb could be Rolf never before knew.

Now, what next? He was trapped in the middle of a military camp
and undoubtedly La Colle Mill was the rendezvous for some
important expedition.

He had ample time to think it all over. Unless he could get away
before day he would surely be discovered. His uniform might save
his life, but soldiers have an awkward, hasty way of dealing
summarily with a spy -- then discovering too late that he was in
uniform.

From time to time he peered forth, but the scene was unchanged --
the sleeping regiment, the pacing sentries, the ever-brightening
moon. Then the guard was changed, and the sentries relieved
selected of all places for their beds, the bank beside the
hay-cock. Again one of them went to help himself to some hay for
a couch; and again the comic anger as he discovered it to be a
bed of thorns. How thankful Rolf was for those annoying things
that pricked his face and neck.

He was now hemmed in on every side and, not knowing what to do,
did nothing. For a couple of hours he lay still, then actually
fell asleep. He was awakened by a faint rustling near his head
and peered forth to see a couple of field mice playing about.

The moon was very bright now, and the movements of the mice were
plain; they were feeding on the seeds of plants in the hay-cock,
and from time to time dashed under - the hay. Then they gambolled
farther off and were making merry over a pod of wild peas when a
light form came skimming noiselessly over the field. There was a
flash, a hurried rush, a clutch, a faint squeak, and one of the
mice was borne away in the claws of its feathered foe. The
survivor scrambled under the hay over Rolf's face and somewhere
into hiding.

The night passed in many short naps. The bugle sounded at
daybreak and the soldiers arose to make breakfast. Again one
approached to use a handful of hay for fire-kindler, and again
the friendly thistles did their part. More and more now his ear
caught suggestive words and sounds -- "Plattsburg" -- "the
colonel" -- etc.

The breakfast smelt wonderfully captivating -- poor Rolf was
famished. The alluring aroma of coffee permeated the hay-cock. He
had his dried meat, but his need was water; he was tormented with
thirst, and stiff and tortured; he was making the hardest fight
of his life. It seemed long, though doubtless it was less than
half an hour before the meal was finished, and to Rolf's relief
there were sounds of marching and the noises were drowned in the
distance.

By keeping his head covered with hay and slowly raising it, he
was safe to take a look around. It was a bright, sunny morning.
The hay-cock, or thistle-cock, was one of several that had been
rejected. It was a quarter-mile from cover; the soldiers were at
work cutting timber and building a stockade around the mill; and,
most dreadful to relate, a small dog was prowling about, looking
for scraps on the scene of the soldiers' breakfast. If that dog
came near his hiding-place, he knew the game was up. At such
close quarters, you can fool a man but not a dog.

Fortunately the breakfast tailings proved abundant, and the dog
went off to assist a friend of his in making sundry interesting
smell analyses along the gate posts of the stockade.

The Duel

This was temporary relief, but left no suggestion of complete
escape. He lay there till nearly noon suffering more and more
from the cramped position and thirst, and utterly puzzled as to
the next move.

"When ye don't like whar ye air, git up without any fuss, and go
whar ye want to be," was what Sylvanne once said to him, and it
came to Rolf with something like a comic shock. The soldiers were
busy in the woods and around the forges. In half an hour it would
be noon and they might come back to eat.

Rolf rose without attempting any further concealment, then
stopped, made a bundle of the stuff that had sheltered him and,
carrying this on his shoulder, strode boldly across the field
toward the woods.

His scout uniform was inconspicuous; the scouts on duty at the
mill saw only one of themselves taking a bundle of hay round to
the stables.

He reached the woods absolutely unchallenged. After a few yards
in its friendly shade, he dropped the thorny bundle and strode
swiftly toward his own camp. He had not gone a hundred yards
before a voice of French type cried "'Alt," and he was face to
face with a sentry whose musket was levelled at him.

A quick glance interchanged, and each gasped out the other's
name.

"Francois la Colle!"

"Rolf Kittering! Mon Dieu! I ought to shoot you, Rolf; I cannot,
I cannot! But run, run! I'll shoot over your head," and his
kindly eyes filled with tears.

Rolf needed no second hint; he ran like a deer, and the musket
ball rattled the branches above his shoulders.

In a few minutes other soldiers came running and from La Colle
they heard of the hostile spy in camp.

"I shoot; I t'ink maybe I not hit eem; maybe some brood dere? No,
dat netting."

There were both runners and trackers in camp. They were like
bloodhounds and they took up the trail of the fugitive. But Rolf
was playing his own game now; he was "Flying Kittering." A
crooked trail is hard to follow, and, going at the long stride
that had made his success, he left many a crook and turn. Before
two miles I they gave it up and the fugitive coming to the river
drank a deep and cooling draught, the first he had had that day.
Five miles through is the dense forest that lies between La Colle
and the border. He struck a creek affluent of the Richelieu River and
followed to its forks, which was the place of rendezvous with Quonab.

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