Chapter 8

high beech ridge_.

_Enter_ MRS. SECORD, _walking as quickly as the underbrush will allow_.

_Mrs. Secord_. How quiet are the woods! The choir of birds that daily ushers in The rosy dawn with bursts of melody, And swells the joyful train that waits upon The footsteps of the sun, is silent now, Dismissed to greenwood bowers. Save happy cheep Of callow nestling, that closer snugs beneath The soft and sheltering wing of doting love,--Like croon of sleeping babe on mother's breast--No sound is heard, but, peaceful, all enjoy Their sweet siesta on the waving bough, Fearless of ruthless wind, or gliding snake. So peaceful lies Fitzgibbon at his post, Nor dreams of harm. Meanwhile the foe Glides from his hole, and threads the darkling route, In hope to coil and crush him. Ah, little recks he that a woman holds The power to draw his fangs! And yet some harm must come, some blood must flow, In spite of all my poor endeavour. O War, how much I hate thy wizard arts, That, with the clash and din of brass and steel, O'erpowers the voice of pleading reason; And with thy lurid light, in monstrous rays Enfolds the symmetry of human love, Making a brother seem a phantom or a ghoul! Before thy deadly scowl kind peace retires, And seeks the upper skies. O, cruel are the hearts that cry "War!" "War!" As if War were an angel, not a fiend; His gilded chariot, a triumphal car, And not a Juggernauth whose wheels drop gore; His offerings, flowers and fruit, and chaplets gay, And not shrieks, tears, and groans of babes and women. And yet hath War, like Juggernauth, a hold, A fascination, for humanity, That makes his vot'ries martyrs for his sake. Even I, poor weakling, march in keeping-time To that grand music that I heard to-day, Though children played it, and I darkly feel Its burden is resistance physical. 'Tis strange that simple tones should move one so! What is it, what, this sound, this air, this breath The wind can blow away, Nor most intricate fetters can enchain? What component of being doth it touch That it can raise the soul to ecstasy, Or plunge it in the lowest depth of horror? Freeze the stopt blood, or send it flowing on In pleasant waves? Can draw soft tears, or concentrate them hard To form a base whereon the martyr stands To take his leap to Heaven? What is this sound that, in Niagara's roar Brings us to Sinai; Or in the infant's prayer to Him, "Our Father?" That by a small inflection wakes the world, And sends its squadroned armies on To victory or death; Or bids it, peaceful, rest, and grow, and build? That reassures the frighted babe; or starts The calm philosopher, without a word? That, in the song of little bird speaks glee; Or in a groan strikes mortal agony? That, in the wind, brings us to shipwreck, death. And dark despair; Or paints us blessed islands far from care or pain? Then what is sound? The chord it vibrates with its magic touch Is not a sense to man peculiar, An independent string formed by that breath That, breathed into the image corporate, Made man a living soul. No, for all animate nature owns Its sovereign power. Brutes, birds, fish, reptiles, all That breathe, are awed or won by means of sound. Therefore, it must be of the corporate, corporeal And, if so, _why then the body lives again_, Despite what sceptics say; for sound it is Will summon us before that final bar To give account of deeds done in the flesh. The spirit cannot thus be summoned, Since entity it hath not sound can strike. Let sceptics rave! I see no difficulty That He, who from primordial atoms formed A human frame, can from the dust awake it Once again, marshal the scattered molecules And make immortal, as was Adam. This body lives! Or else no deep delight Of quiring angels harping golden strings; No voice of Him who calls His children home; No glorious joining in the immortal song Could touch our being But how refined our state! How changed! Never to tire or grow distraught, Or wish for rest, or sleep, or quietude, But find in absence of these earthly needs A truer Heaven. O might I rest even now! These feet grow painful, and the shadows tell Of night and dark approaching, my goal An anxious distance off.

[_She gazes round_.

I'll rest awhile, For yonder height will tax my waning strength, And many a brier all beautiful with bloom Hides many a thorn that will dispute my path Beneath those ancient beeches.

(_She seats herself, and having removed her bonnet, partakes of the refreshment brought from the mill. As she eats, a grieved look comes upon her face, and she wipes away a tear_.)

The sun leans towards the west: O darlings mine, E'en now, perchance, ye sit in order round The evening board, your father at the head, And Polly in my place making his tea, While he pretends to eat, and cheats himself. And thou, O husband, dearest, might I lay My, weary head as oft upon thy breast!-- But no (_she rises_), I dare not think--there is above A Love will guard me, and, O blessed thought, Thee, too, and they our darlings.

[_She proceeds towards the beech ridge, but is stayed at the foot by a rapid-running stream_.

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, passing 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. Pass, friend, All's well.

[MRS. SECORD _passes 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)_. God 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.

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