Rolf In The Woods

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That morning Plattsburg was wakened by a renewal of the
bombardment. The heavy firing killed a few men knocked down a few
walls and chimneys, but did little damage to the earthworks.

It was surprising to all how soon the defenders lost their
gun-shyness. The very school-boys and their sisters went calmly
about their business, with cannon and musket balls whistling
overhead, striking the walls and windows, or, on rare occasions,
dropping some rifleman who was over-rash as he worked or walked
on the ramparts.

There were big things doing in the British camp -- regiments
marching and taking their places -- storms of rifle and cannon
balls raging fiercely. By ten o'clock there was a lull. The
Americans, from the grandfathers to the school- boys, were
posted, each with his rifle and his pouch full of balls; there
were pale faces among the youngsters, and nervous fingers, but
there was no giving way. Many a man there was, no doubt, who,
under the impulse of patriotism, rushed with his gun to join the
ranks, and when the bloody front was reached, he wished in his
heart he was safe at home. But they did not go. Something kept
them staunch.

Although the lines were complete all along the ramparts, there
were four places where the men were massed. These were on the
embankments opposite the bridges and the fords. Here the best
shots were placed and among them was Rolf, with others of
McGlassin's band.

The plank of the bridges had been torn up and used with earth to
form breastworks; but the stringers of the bridges were there,
and a body of red-coats approaching, each of them showed plainly
what their plan was.

The farthest effective range of rifle fire in those days was
reckoned at a hundred yards. The Americans were ordered to hold
their fire till the enemy reached the oaks, a grove one hundred
yards from the main bridge -- on the other bank.

The British came on in perfect review-day style. Now a hush fell
on all. The British officer in command was heard clearly giving
his orders. How strange it must have been to the veterans of wars
in Spain, France, and the Rhine, to advance against a force with
whom they needed no interpreter.

McGlassin's deep voice now rang along the defences, "Don't fire
till I give the order."

The red-coats came on at a trot, they reached the hundred-
yard-mark.

"Now, aim low and fire!" from McGlassin, and the rattle of the
Yankee guns was followed by reeling ranks of red in the oaks.

"Charge!" shouted the British officer and the red-coats charged
to the bridge, but the fire from the embankment was incessant;
the trail of the charging men was cluttered with those who fell.

"Forward!" and the gallant British captain leaped on the central
stringer of the bridge and, waving his sword, led on. Instantly
three lines of men were formed, one on each stringer.

They were only fifty yards from the barricade, with five hundred
rifles, all concentrated on these stringers. The first to fall
was the captain, shot through the heart, and the river bore him
away. But on and on came the three ranks into the whistling,
withering fire of lead. It was like slaughtering sheep. Yet on
and on they marched steadily for half an hour. Not a man held
back or turned, though all knew they were marching to their
certain death. Not one of them ever reached the centre of the
span, and those who dropped, not dead, were swallowed by the
swollen stream. How many hundred brave men were sacrificed that
day, no one ever knew. He who gave the word to charge was dead
with his second and third in command and before another could
come to change the order, the river ran red -- the bloody Saranac
they call it ever since.

The regiment was wrecked, and the assault for the time was over.

Rolf had plied his rifle with the rest, but it sickened him to
see the horrible waste of human valour. It was such ghastly work
that he was glad indeed when a messenger came to say he was
needed at headquarters. And in an hour he was crossing the lake
with news and instructions for the officer in command at Burlington.

The Battle of Plattsburg

In broad daylight he skimmed away in his one man canoe.

For five hours he paddled, and at star-peep he reached the dock
at Burlington. The howl of a lost dog caught his ear; and when he
traced the sound, there, on the outmost plank, with his nose to
the skies, was the familiar form of Skookum, wailing and sadly
alone.

What a change he showed when Rolf landed; he barked, leaped,
growled, tail-wagged, head-wagged, feet-wagged, body-wagged,
wig-wagged and zigzagged for joy; he raced in circles, looking
for a sacrificial hen, and finally uttered a long and
conversational whine that doubtless was full of information for
those who could get it out.

Rolf delivered his budget at once. It was good news, but not
conclusive. Everything depended now on MacDonough. In the morning
all available troops should hurry to the defence of Plattsburg;
not less than fifteen hundred men were ready to embark at daylight.

That night Rolf slept with Skookum in the barracks. At daybreak,
much to the latter's disgust, he was locked up in a cellar, and
the troops embarked for the front.

It was a brisk north wind they had to face in crossing and
passing down the lake. There were many sturdy oarsmen at the
sweeps, but they could not hope to reach their goal in less than
five hours.

When they were half way over, they heard the cannon roar; the
booming became incessant; without question, a great naval battle
was on, for this north wind was what the British had been
awaiting. The rowers bent to their task and added to the speed.
Their brothers were hard pressed; they knew it, they must make
haste. The long boats flew. In an hour they could see the masts,
the sails, the smoke of the battle, but nothing gather of the
portentous result. Albany and New York, as well as Plattsburg,
were in the balance, and the oarsmen rowed and rowed and rowed.

The cannon roared louder and louder, though less continuously, as
another hour passed. Now they could see the vessels only four
miles away. The jets of smoke were intermittent from the guns;
masts went down. They could see it plainly. The rowers only set
their lips and rowed and rowed and rowed.

Sir George had reckoned on but one obstacle in his march to
Albany, an obstruction named MacDonough; but he now found there
was another called Macomb.

It was obviously a waste of men to take Plattsburg by front
assault, when he could easily force a passage of the river higher
up and take it on the rear; and it was equally clear that when
his fleet arrived and crushed the American fleet, it would be a
simple matter for the war vessels to blow the town to pieces,
without risking a man.

Already a favouring wind had made it possible for Downie to leave
Isle au Noix and sail down the lake with his gallant crew, under
gallant canvas clouds.

Tried men and true in control of every ship, out- numbering
MacDonough, outweighing him, outpointing him in everything but
seamanship, they came on, sure of success.

Three chief moves were in MacDonough's strategy. He anchored to
the northward of the bay, so that any fleet coming down the lake
would have to beat up against the wind to reach him; so close to
land that any fleet trying to flank him would come within range
of the forts; and left only one apparent gap that a foe might try
to use, a gap in front of which was a dangerous sunken reef. This
was indeed a baited trap. Finally he put out cables, kedges,
anchors, and springs, so that with the capstan he could turn his
vessels and bring either side to bear on the foe.

All was ready, that morning of September the 11th as the British
fleet, ably handled, swung around the Cumberland Head.

The young commander of the Yankee fleet now kneeled bareheaded
with his crew and prayed to the God of Battles as only those
going into battle pray. The gallant foe came on, and who that
knows him doubts that he, too, raised his heart in reverent
prayer? The first broadside from the British broke open a chicken
coop on the Saratoga from which a game-cock flew, and, perching
on a gun, flapped his wings and crowed; so all the seamen cheered
at such a happy omen.

Then followed the fighting, with its bravery and its horrors --
its brutish wickedness broke loose.

Early in the action, the British sloop, Finch, fell into
MacDonough's trap and grounded on the reef.

The British commander was killed, with many of his officers.
Still, the heavy fire of the guns would have given them the
victory, but for MacDonough's foresight in providing for swinging
his ships. When one broadside was entirely out of action, he used
his cables, kedges and springs, and brought the other batteries
to bear.

It was one of the most desperate naval fights the world has ever
seen. Of the three hundred men on the British flag- ship not more
than five, we are told, escaped uninjured; and at the close there
was not left on any one of the eight vessels a mast that could
carry sail, or a sail that could render service. In less than two
hours and a half the fight was won, and the British fleet
destroyed.

To the God of Battles each had committed his cause: and the God
of Battles had spoken.

Far away to the southward in the boats were the Vermont troops
with their general and Rolf in the foremost. Every sign of the
fight they had watched as men whose country's fate is being tried.

It was a quarter after eleven when the thunder died away; and the
Vermonters were headed on shore, for a hasty landing, if need be,
when down from the peak of the British flag-ship went the Union
Jack, and the Stars and Stripes was hauled to take its place.

"Thank God!" a soft, murmuring sigh ran through all the boats and
many a bronzed and bearded cheek was wet with tears. Each man
clasped hands with his neighbour; all were deeply moved, and even
as an audience melted renders no applause, so none felt any wish
to vent his deep emotion in a cheer.
Scouting for Macomb

General Macomb knew that Sir George Prevost was a cautious and
experienced commander. The loss of his fleet would certainly make
a radical change in his plans, but what change? Would he make a
flank move and dash on to Albany, or retreat to Canada, or
entrench himself to await reinforcements at Plattsburg, or try to
retrieve his laurels by an overwhelming assault on the town?

Whatever his plan, he would set about it quickly, and Macomb
studied the enemy's camp with a keen, discerning eye, but nothing
suggesting a change was visible when the sun sank in the rainy west.

It was vital that he know it at once when an important move was
begun, and as soon as the night came down, a score of the
swiftest scouts were called for. All were young men; most of them
had been in McGlassin's band. Rolf was conspicuous among them for
his tall figure, but there was a Vermont boy named Seymour, who
had the reputation of being the swiftest runner of them all.

They had two duties laid before them: first, to find whether
Prevost's army was really retreating; second, what of the
regiment he sent up the Saranac to perform the flank movement.

Each was given the country he knew best. Some went westerly, some
followed up the river. Rolf, Seymour, and Fiske, another
Vermonter, skimmed out of Plattsburg harbour in the dusk, rounded
Cumberland Bend, and at nine o'clock landed at Point au Roche, at
the north side of Treadwell's Bay.

Here they hid the canoe and agreeing to meet again at midnight,
set off in three different westerly directions to strike the
highway at different points. Seymour, as the fast racer, was
given the northmost route; Rolf took the middle. Their signals
were arranged -- in the woods the barred-owl cry, by the water
the loon; and they parted.

The woods seemed very solemn to Rolf that historic September
night, as he strode along at speed, stopping now and again when
he thought he heard some signal, and opened wide his mouth to
relieve his ear-drums of the heart-beat or to still the rushing
of his breath.

In half an hour he reached the high-road. It was deserted. Then
he heard a cry of the barred owl:

Wa -- wah -- wa -- wah Wa - wah -- wa -- hooooo-aw.

He replied with the last line, and the answer came a repeat of
the whole chant, showing that it might be owl, it might be man;
but it was not the right man, for the final response should have
been the hooooo-aw. Rolf never knew whence it came, but gave no
further heed.

For a long time he sat in a dark corner, where he could watch the
road. There were sounds of stir in the direction of Plattsburg.
Then later, and much nearer, a couple of shots were fired. He
learned afterward that those shots were meant for one of his
friends. At length there was a faint tump ta tump ta. He drew his
knife, stuck it deep in the ground, then held the handle in his
teeth. This acted like a magnifier, for now he heard it plainly
enough -- the sound of a horse at full gallop -- but so far away
that it was five minutes before he could clearly hear it while
standing. As the sound neared, he heard the clank of arms, and
when it passed, Rolf knew that this was a mounted British
officer. But why, and whither?

In order to learn the rider's route, Rolf followed at a trot for
a mile. This brought him to a hilltop, whither in the silent
night, that fateful north wind carried still the sound

te -- rump te -- rump te -- rump.

As it was nearly lost, Rolf used his knife again; that brought
the rider back within a mile it seemed, and again the hoof beat
faded, te -- rump te -- rump.

"Bound for Canada all right," Rolf chuckled to himself. But there
was nothing to show whether this was a mere despatch rider, or an
advance scout, or a call for reinforcements.

So again he had a long wait. About half-past ten a new and larger
sound came from the south. The knife in the ground increased but
did not explain it. The night was moonless, dark now, and it was
safe to sit very near the road. In twenty minutes the sound was
near at hand in five, a dark mass was passing along the road.
There is no mistaking the language of drivers. There is never any
question about such and such a voice being that of an English
officer. There can be no doubt about the clank of heavy wheels --
a rich, tangy voice from some one in advance said: "Oui. Parbleu,
tows ce que je sais, c'est par la." A body of about one hundred
Britishers, two or three wagons, guns, and a Frenchman for guide.
Rolf thought he knew that voice; yes, he was almost sure it was
the voice of Francios la Colle.

This was important but far from conclusive. It was now eleven. He
was due at the canoe by midnight. He made for the place as fast
as he could go, which, on such a night, was slow, but guided by
occasional glimpses of the stars he reached the lake, and pausing
a furlong from the landing, he gave the rolling, quivering loon call:

Ho-o-o-o-ooo-o Ho-o-o-o-ooo-o. Hooo-ooo.

After ten seconds the answer came:

Ho-o-o-o-o-o-o-o Hoo-ooo.

And again after ten seconds Rolf's reply:

Hoo-ooo.

Both his friends were there; Fiske with a bullet-hole through his
arm. It seemed their duty to go back at once to headquarters with
the meagre information and their wounded comrade. But Fiske made
light of his trouble -- it was a mere scratch -- and reminded
them that their orders were to make sure of the enemy's
movements. Therefore, it was arranged that Seymour take back
Fiske and what news they had, while Rolf went on to complete his scouting.

By one o'clock he was again on the hill where he had marked the
horseman's outward flight and the escorted guns. Now, as he
waited, there were sounds in the north that faded, and in the
south were similar sounds that grew. Within an hour he was
viewing a still larger body of troops with drivers and wheels
that clanked. There were only two explanations possible: Either
the British were concentrating on Chazy Landing, where, protected
from MacDonough by the north wind, they could bring enough stores
and forces from the north to march overland independent of the
ships, or else they were in full retreat for Canada. There was
but one point where this could be made sure, namely, at the forks
of the road in Chazy village. So he set out at a jog trot for
Chazy, six miles away.

The troops ahead were going three miles an hour. Rolf could go five.
In twenty minutes he overtook them and now was embarrassed
by their slowness. What should he do? It was nearly impossible to
make speed through the woods in the darkness, so as to pass them.
He was forced to content himself by marching a few yards in their rear.

Once or twice when a group fell back, he was uncomfortably close
and heard scraps of their talk.

These left little doubt that the army was in retreat. Still this
was the mere chatter of the ranks. He curbed his impatience and
trudged with the troop. Once a man dropped back to light his
pipe. He almost touched Rolf, and seeing a marching figure, asked
in unmistakable accents "Oi soi matey, 'ave ye a loight?"

Rolf assumed the low south country English dialect, already
familiar through talking with prisoners, and replied: "Naow, oi
oin't a-smowking," then gradually dropped out of sight.

They were nearly two hours in reaching Chazy where they passed
the Forks, going straight on north. Without doubt, now, the army
was bound for Canada! Rolf sat on a fence near by as their
footsteps went tramp, tramp, tramp -- with the wagons, clank,
clank, clank, and were lost in the northern distance.

He had seen perhaps three hundred men; there were thirteen
thousand to account for, and he sat and waited. He did not have
long to wait; within half an hour a much larger body of troops
evidently was approaching from the south; several lanterns
gleamed ahead of them, so Rolf got over the fence, but it was low
and its pickets offered poor shelter. Farther back was Judge
Hubbell's familiar abode with dense shrubbery. He hastened to it
and in a minute was hidden where he could see something of the
approaching troops. They were much like those that had gone
before, but much more numerous, at least a regiment, and as they
filled the village way, an officer cried "Halt!" and gave new
orders. Evidently they were about to bivouac for the night. A
soldier approached the picket fence to use it for firewood, but
an officer rebuked him. Other fuel, chiefly fence rails, was
found, and a score or more of fires were lighted on the highway
and in the adjoining pasture. Rolf found himself in something
like a trap, for in less than two hours now would be the dawn.

The simplest way out was to go in; he crawled quietly round the
house to the window of Mrs. Hubbell's room. These were times of
nervous tension, and three or four taps on the pane were enough
to arouse the good lady. Her husband had come that way more than once.

"Who is it?" she demanded, through a small opening of the sash.

"Rolf Kittering," he whispered, "the place is surrounded by
soldiers; can't you hide me?"

Could she? Imagine an American woman saying "No" at such a time.

He slipped in quietly.

"What news?" she said. "They say that MacDonough has won
on the Lake, but Plattsburg is taken."

"No, indeed; Plattsburgh is safe; MacDonough has captured the fleet.
I am nearly sure that the whole British army is retiring to Canada."

"Thank God, thank God," she said fervently, "I knew it must be
so; the women have met here and prayed together every day,
morning and night. But hush!" she laid a warning finger on her
lips and pointed up toward one of the rooms -- "British officer."

She brought two blankets from a press and led up to the garret.
At the lowest part of the roof was a tiny door to a lumber
closet. In this Rolf spread his blankets, stretched his weary
limbs, and soon was sound asleep.

At dawn the bugles blew, the camp was astir. The officer in the
house arose and took his post on the porch. He was there on guard
to protect the house. His brother officers joined him. Mrs.
Hubbell prepared breakfast. It was eaten silently, so far as Rolf
could learn. They paid for it and, heading their regiment, went
away northward, leaving the officer still on the porch.

Presently Rolf heard a stealthy step in his garret, the closed
door was pushed open, and Mrs. Hubbell's calm, handsome face
appeared, as, with a reassuring nod, she set down a mug of
coffee, some bread, and a bowl of mush and milk. And only those
who have travelled and fasted for twelve hours when they were
nineteen know how good it tasted.

From a tiny window ventilator Rolf had a view of the road in
front. A growing din of men prepared him for more troops, but
still he was surprised to see ten regiments march past with all
their stores -- a brave army, but no one could mistake their
looks; they wore the despondent air of an army in full retreat.

The Last of Sir George Prevost

The battle was over at Plattsburg town, though it had not been
fought; for the spirit of MacDonough was on land and water, and
it was felt by the British general, as well as the Yankee
riflemen, as soon as the Union Jack had been hauled from the mast
of the Confiance.

Now Sir George Prevost had to face a momentous decision: He could
force the passage of the Saranac and march on to Albany, but his
communications would be cut, and he must rely on a hostile
country for supplies. Every day drew fresh bands of riflemen from
the hills. Before he could get to Albany their number might
exceed his, and then what? Unless Great Britain could send a new
army or a fleet to support him, he must meet the fate of
Burgoyne. Prevost proposed to take no such chances and the night
of the 11th eight hours after MacDonough's victory, he gave the
order "Retire to Canada."

To hide the move as long as possible, no change was made till
after sundown; no hint was given to the beleaguered town; they
must have no opportunity to reap the enormous advantages, moral
and material, of harrying a retreating foe. They must arise in
the morning to find the enemy safely over the border. The plan
was perfect, and would have been literally carried out, had not
he had to deal with a foe as clever as himself.

How eagerly Rolf took in the scene on Chazy Road; how much it
meant! how he longed to fly at his fastest famous speed with the
stirring news. In two hours and a half he could surely let his
leader know. And he gazed with a sort of superior pride at the
martial pomp and bravery of the invaders driven forth.

Near the last was a gallant array of gentlemen in gorgeous
uniforms of scarlet and gold; how warlike they looked, how
splendid beside the ill-clad riflemen of Vermont and the rude
hunters of the Adirondacks. How much more beautiful is an iron
sword with jewels, than a sword of plain gray steel.

Dame Hubbell stood in her door as they went by. Each and all
saluted politely; her guard was ordered to join his regiment. The
lady waved her sun-bonnet in response to their courteous
good-bye, and could not refrain from calling out:

"How about my prophecy, Sir George, and those purses?"

Rolf could not see his hostess, but he heard her voice, and he
saw the astonishing effect:

The British general reined in his horse. "A gentleman's word is
his bond, madam," he said. "Let every officer now throw his purse
at the lady's feet," and he set the example. A dozen rattling
thuds were heard and a dozen officers saluting, purseless, rode
away.

A round thousand dollars in gold the lady gathered on her porch
that morning, and to this day her grand-kin tell the tale.
Rolf Unmasks the Ambush

Rolf's information was complete now, and all that remained was to
report at Plattsburg. Ten regiments he had counted from his peep
hole. The rear guard passed at ten o'clock. At eleven Mrs.
Hubbell did a little scouting and reported that all was quiet as
far as she could see both ways, and no enemy in sight anywhere.

With a grateful hand shake he left the house to cover the
fourteen miles that lay between Chazy and Plattsburg.

Refreshed and fed, young and strong, the representative of a just
and victorious cause, how he exulted in that run, rejoicing in
his youth, his country, his strength, his legs, his fame as a
runner. Starting at a stride he soon was trotting; then, when the
noon hour came, he had covered a good six miles. Now he heard
faint, far shots, and going more slowly was soon conscious that a
running fight was on between his own people and the body of
British sent westward to hold the upper Saranac.

True to the instinct of the scout, his first business was to find
out exactly what and where they were. From a thick tree top he
saw the red-coats spotting an opening of the distant country.
Then they were lost sight of in the woods. The desultory firing
became volley firing, once or twice. Then there was an interval
of silence. At length a mass of red-coats appeared on the highway
within half a mile. They were travelling very fast, in full
retreat, and were coming his way. On the crest of the hill over
which the road ran, Rolf saw them suddenly drop to the ground and
take up position to form a most dangerous ambuscade, and half a
mile away, straggling through the woods, running or striding,
were the men in the colours he loved. They had swept the enemy
before them, so far, but trained troops speedily recover from a
panic, if they have a leader of nerve, and seeing a noble chance
in the angle of this deep-sunk road, the British fugitives turned
like boars at bay. Not a sign of them was visible to the
Americans. The latter were suffering from too much success. Their
usual caution seemed to have deserted them, and trotting in a
body they came along the narrow road, hemmed in by a forest and
soon to be hedged with cliffs of clay. They were heading for a
death-trap. At any price he must warn them. He slid down the
tree, and keeping cover ran as fast as possible toward the
ambush. It was the only hill near -- Beekman's Rise, they call
it. As far as possible from the red-coats, but still on the hill
that gave a view, he leaped on to a high stump and yelled as he
never did before: "Go back, go back! A trap! A trap!" And lifting
high his outspread hands he flung their palms toward his friends,
the old-time signal for "go back."

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