University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.
THE CAMP.

The first division of the colonial, or, as it styled
itself, the American army, which, led by the gallant
Montgomery, invaded Canada by the way of Lake
Champlain, had been victorious in every contest in
which it had been engaged. Montreal, Longueuil,
Chambly, and St. John's, with other important posts,
successively surrendered to its arms, while military
stores, artillery, provisions, and camp equipments,
in great quantities, fell into its hands. All
Upper Canada, in fact, by the fall of its strongest
post, Montreal, was in possession of the Americans.
General Montgomery wisely determined to follow
up his brilliant successes by forming an immediate
junction with the second division of the invading
army under Colonel Arnold. For this purpose he
resolved to advance on Quebec without delay,
hoping to meet a messenger, as it had been preconcerted
between himself and that officer, despatched
to inform him of his approach, and thereby

enable him to execute his plans for a speedy and
effectual co-operation.

General Carleton, at this period governor of
Canada, on the breaking out of hostilities between
the American colonies and Great Britain, had
promptly marched to defend Montreal and the adjacent
frontier against any incursions of the rebels.
But, unsuccessful in his exertions to save that
place, and alarmed by rumours that a second army
had marched through the wilderness of Maine
against Quebec, he trembled for its safety; for he
was aware that the government of the province
was lodged in the hands of those who held possession
of that citadel, then styled the Gibraltar of the
western world. He resigned, therefore, to Montgomery
the present fruits of his victories, and, by
an able movement, drew off his forces and advanced
rapidly to its relief. After accompanying the detachment
a few leagues, impatient at its slow progress,
he threw himself, with a few attendants, into
a boat, that he might precede it by a quicker route.
While, with a fair wind, he sailed down the St.
Lawrence, his troops, with forced marches, were
approaching the city, within half a day's march of
which they had arrived when our travellers encountered
them.

General Montgomery, in the mean time, after
taking such steps as should secure the possession
of his conquests, followed in the track of the British
troops. Except by vague and unofficial reports,
he had not received any tidings of the success
of his coadjutor since his departure from New-York.
His anxiety to learn how far he had been
successful was, therefore, in proportion to the stake
depending on their enterprise. He was aware that
an immediate combination of their forces was necessary
to secure what advantages they had already

gained, and even to the accomplishment of anything
further. He indulged, indeed, though faintly, the
hope that Quebec had already fallen into the hands
of Colonel Arnold. This hope, however, did not
retard his movements. After a forced march, he at
length arrived within fifteen leagues of the city, and
pitched his camp in a wood the night of the day
on which our travellers, after beholding the march
of the British forces, once more resumed their
journey.

It was already midnight, when, after having
made a second visit to his outposts, and taken
those precautions against surprise which an experienced
soldier will never neglect, whether danger
be distant or immediate, General Montgomery entered
his tent, and threw himself, in his fatigue
dress, upon a pile of furs that formed his couch,
and the only protection from the snow which covered
the ground. He had just fallen asleep, when
he was disturbed by the entrance of the sentinel
who guarded his tent.

“How now, Horton?” he said, waking with that
readiness characteristic of men who sleep in the
midst of danger.

“A messenger from Colonel Arnold, sir.”

“Admit him. Now is Quebec mine!” he added,
with exultation, as the sentinel left the tent.
“Ha! a priest? But, priest or layman, you are
welcome, sir,” he said, advancing to meet the individual
whom the soldier ushered into his presence.
“What news do you bring from Colonel Arnold?”

“I left him three days since,” answered the messenger,
“marching with a weary but determined
army towards Quebec. He is now within two days
march of that place.”

“And I more than one, with Carleton between
me and its gates,” exclaimed Montgomery, with a

gesture of impatience. “Well,” he added, rapidly
pacing the tent for a few seconds, “we shall
only have a little harder work than I anticipated.
Carleton will now give us an opportunity of gazing
at the outside of his walls for a few days before we
can get on the inside. Our troops will have an
opportunity of showing their gallantry, that is all.”

“They have already shown it, sir, if what rumour
tells us be true. Permit me, General Montgomery,”
added the messenger, with grace, “to congratulate
you on the success of your arms. If
Heaven had favoured us with a speedier march
through the wilderness, I had fleshed my maiden
sword under a brave leader, at least.”

“Ha! say you so? By my sword! there spoke
the soldier then, beneath that monk's cowl,” said
Montgomery, eying him fixedly; “your words
smack of the camp rather than the cloister, fair
sir.”

“I have so long lived in cloisters and worn their
priestly vestments, that I had wellnigh turned
monk in earnest. That I have had temptation to
do so,” continued the messenger, smiling, “yourself
may judge when I bring forward the arguments
to which I had nearly yielded. But first let me put
an end to this mummery. I am no monk, General
Montgomery,” he added, throwing off his disguise,
and casting it contemptuously on the buffalo hides
at his feet, “but a volunteer in the army under
Colonel Arnold, and despatched by him with a
verbal communication to make you acquainted with
his movements and intentions.”

When General Montgomery beheld the sudden
metamorphosis of his visiter, and found that an
armed stranger stood in his presence instead of a
peaceful monk, he involuntarily placed his hand
upon the hilt of his sword, as if apprehending

treachery. But the youthful and elegant appearance
of the young soldier, united with his frank
and graceful bearing, forming a marked and favourable
contrast to the slouch and awkward monk
whom he had gazed upon but a moment before, at
once inspired him with confidence. After looking
at him steadily for an instant, he approached him,
and, cordially grasping his hand, said,

“My brave young gentleman, you are welcome
indeed. I had despaired of much accurate information
when I beheld a priest the bearer of Colonel
Arnold's communications. But now I shall learn
all. Sit with me on this buffalo's robe, which is
both my bed and sofa, and let me hear what tidings,
good or ill, you bring from my gallant colonel.”

At once relieved from any embarrassment which,
as a stranger, he might have anticipated on meeting
with General Montgonery, by the affability and
simplicity of his address, he forthwith detailed to
him, with a brevity, and intelligence, and a knowledge
of military tactics which pleased while it
surprised him, the character of the re-enforcement
on its way, the number of efficient men he might
depend upon, and the probable time of their arrival
at Point Levi and junction with his own forces.
He also informed him of the march of the British
army, of their number and condition; and finally
gave him, briefly and pleasantly, a history of his
adventures.

The communication of the young American was
received by the chief with undisguised gratification;
and his eye glowed with sanguine anticipations as,
in turn, he eloquently laid his plan of operations
against Quebec before his guest, whose intrepidity,
intelligence, and the knowledge of the business of
a soldier he had betrayed in his remarks, had inspired
his entire confidence.

“Now, my young friend, as you hold no commission
under Colonel Arnold, I shall insist on
attaching you to my staff, appointing you as one
of my aids. What say you to sharing my laurels,
young sir?” he added, smiling and taking his hand.

The young officer pressed it in silence; but the
proud glance of his dark eyes and the sudden
suffusion of his brow spoke deeper gratitude than
any words, however well chosen, could have expressed.
It was the grateful acknowledgment of
the heart, not merely of the tongue. General
Montgomery was flattered by the display of emotions
so praiseworthy in a chivalrous young man,
and felt additional assurance that his appointment
had not been misplaced. Brave and intrepid men
read each other at a glance. While he surveyed
his calm forehead, and listened to the manly tones
of his voice as he related the business of his mission,
he felt that he was in the presence of no
ordinary spirit, and with one kindred to his own.

“Now, my young major,” he said, after a few
moments' discussion of the plans he had detailed,
“you must be fatigued, and we will, for the remainder
of the night, share this hairy couch together.
It may not be so tempting as you have
found among the monks, to whose arguments in
favour of leading a monkish life, I think, you
a while since observed you had wellnigh yielded.
But, pray, why look you so intently towards the
door? Have you a brother monk without?”

“Only the arguments I spoke of, general, in the
shape of a pair of black eyes, fortified by a pair of
sweet lips.”

“Surely the novice you tell me you so romantically
eloped with cannot be in camp?”

“She is now in waiting by the fire without the

tent, and, I doubt not, some what impatient at my
long absence.”

“A Cleopatra in the train of my young Mark
Antony! It's an ominous beginning of your military
career,” said the general, playfully. “Nevertheless,”
he added, shaking his head disapprovingly,
“she must be admitted. But what can be done
with her? I cannot well make an aiddecamp of
a petticoat.”

“I have rescued her,” said the young soldier, in
a firm but respectful voice, “from gross oppression
and imprisonment, no matter by what other
names the priesthood may gloss it over. I have
brought her to your camp, General Montgomery,
to place her under your protection, until, as I have
already informed you, she can join her friends in
Quebec; for I am sufficiently conscious of the impropriety
of being longer her protector.”

“You are, indeed, wonderfully discreet,” remarked
the general, with humour, “to deem a young
cavalier of some twenty-one years, with a tolerable
face and figure, to say no more, an indifferent
duenna for a wild, runaway nun. Well, I suppose
I must give an audience to this Delilah, and I will
forthwith consign her to the care of my good lady,
who is not far behind. Cupid defend me! if she
be as lovely as you have described her to me, I
mistrust my worthy dame will be jealous of my
protectorship. But favour me with a sight of this
fair vestal, under whose auspices you have entered
the army.”

Returning the playful irony of his general with
a smile and blush, he left the tent, and in a few
seconds returned with the novice, still disguised as
a priest.

“What, ho! another monk? We shall have our
camp converted into a holy brotherhood, and go to

battle by sound of mass instead of fife and drum.
Ha! another masquerade? Verily, young gallant,
you are bringing back the days of romance, when
knight and lady went mumming on adventure
through the land. But if ever angel were imbodied,
one has descended into my tent this night!”
he exclaimed, as Eugenie, at the solicitation of the
young soldier, dropped her disguise, at the same
time partly unveiling her face, and displayed features,
the brilliant and striking cast of which must
have impressed the most indifferent beholder.

“Pardon a soldier's rudeness of speech, lady,”
he said, gracefully taking her hand, and pressing it
to his lips with that courtly and profound respect
which characterized the formal gentlemen of the
day, “I know your story. If a convent's walls
could have held out to you any charms, or if your
tone of mind and disposition had fitted you for a
monastic life, then, perhaps, it would have been
best that you should have remained with your
spiritual guardians. Nay, dear young lady, I do
not censure you! I am merely expressing an
opinion, unimportant, however, to my purpose.
From this moment look on me as your paternal
guardian. In the morning I will send you, with a
suitable escort, to Trois Rivières, to the hospitable
mansion of a friend to our cause, Colonel Olney,
who will place you with your friends the earliest
opportunity. There also you will meet Mrs.
Montgomery, in whom you will find a lady as
amiable and dignified as she is lovely. I will drop
a note to her by you. In a few hours after leaving
the camp you will be with her. Do not hesitate to
embrace my offer, Miss de Lisle. It is made in
affection and good-will. For you to remain longer
with my young knight here will be, you are doubtless
aware,” he continued, smiling, “in some degree

indecorous, according to the notions of our
provincial maidens.”

Although affected by the kind manner and friendly
words of the dignified chief, the lovely novice,
from time to time, while he was speaking, cast
timid and troubled glances towards her late travelling
companion. He interpreted her looks, and,
drawing near, took her hand and said softly,

“Now, dearest Eugenie, preserve that noble fortitude
which has so repeatedly challenged my
admiration. Accept the kind invitation of General
Montgomery, and take shelter beneath the hospitable
roof of Colonel Olney. If you will allow me
to do so, I will accompany you part of the way.
Your own heart must tell you,” he added, still more
tenderly, “that I would accompany you quite to
Trois Rivières; nay, never leave you! But duty
to my country, honour, everything dear to a man
and a soldier, bid me tear myself away. Tell me
that you will comply with General Montgomery's
request, and you will make me happier than I can
express.”

Eugenie listened in silence, and, when he ceased,
in the abandonment of the moment, overwhelmed
by a vivid sense of her destitution and loneliness,
heedless of the presence of a stranger, and forgetful
of all else but the proposal which was to separate
her from one who so entirely possessed her
heart, she flung herself weeping upon his shoulder.
The impassioned lover imprinted a kiss upon her
forehead as he supported her form. The touch
of his bold lip electrified her, and restored her at
once to self-possession. Hastily disengaging herself,
covered with confusion, from the arm which
half encircled her waist, though so lightly that she
scarcely felt that it sustained her, she said softly,

“Anything, Edward; your honour is dearer to

me than my love. Go where it calls you. Think
not of me. Do your duty on the field of battle, while
I fly to the altar to pray for you. Sir,” she added,
turning to General Montgomery, who had beheld
this little scene between the youthful pair with
mingled emotions; of suspicion, as he marked the
passionate glances, dangerous smile, and soothing
words of the young man; of pity, while he surveyed
the lovely form of the confiding girl, as, true
to her sex, in total recklessness of all else but her
woman's love, she threw herself upon his bosom.
“Sir, I will accept your generous offer of protection,
and intrude upon the kindness of your friend
until Heaven sends me better fortunes.”

“Then, my sweet child,” he said, in his usual
amiable and cordial manner, “you are from this
moment my daughter. Wilt yield me a daughter's
obedience?”

“Willingly, my kind parent,” she replied, ingenuously
extending her hand. “But you will promise
I shall soon see my brother?” she asked, with a
faint return of her usual archness, glancing as she
spoke towards the young soldier.

“That I promise. Now, my child, you are
fatigued. This is a somewhat rude couch for thy
tender limbs to press, but sound sleep will make
that shaggy bearskin a pillow of down. For this
night I resign my tent to you. As for you, young
sir, I shall be honoured by your company while I
visit the chain of sentinels. Horton,” he said, as
he passed the sentinel, who was walking backward
and forward before the tent, the barrel of his musket
gleaming in the moonlight, “see that you admit
no one into my tent during my absence, and that
you do not enter yourself, under any circumstances.”

The two gentlemen walked some distance through

the camp in silence. After a few minutes' progress
they came to an open area beyond the crowd of
tents, when the chief, with a grave manner and in
an impressive tone, said,

“This romance of yours, young gentleman, if I
may judge from the scene I have just beheld, is
likely to be rather serious, if it has not been so
already. Pardon me, but young men are easily
led astray, let honour call them back never so
loudly. This lovely child—for I have seldom
before seen so much beauty united with so much
childlike innocence—addressed you once as brother.
Am I to understand that such was the relationship
you assumed in your wild journey, on which both
Mars and Venus appear to have smiled?”

“It was, General Montgomery,” he replied, in a
tone of impatience.

“Forgive me, my dear friend, if I ask if the
relationship was sacredly regarded by you?”

“Upon my honour, yes! saving that love has
been busy with both our hearts, she is and has
been only my sister.”

His reply was delivered in a firm and frank
voice, and with such natural warmth of feeling and
honest sincerity that his companion's suspicions
were at once removed.

“'Tis a great escape. I did not think your
youth proof against such odds as you have so
happily encountered. Well, if there be true love
here, true love was never marred by an Irishman.
After the wars, my brave youth, we will take our
laurels to my farm at Rhinebeck, I to share them
with my lady-love, maugre that Hymen hath bound
us some half dozen years or so, and you to cast
them at the feet of the lovely Eugenie. So now
let us for a while dismiss the ladies, and take a
sterner theme. 'Twas the ancient Goths, was it

not, who forbade their young men to marry until
they were twenty-one or had signalized themselves
in battle? But we will be neither Goths nor Vandals
with you. You lack at the very least two years of
that hymeneal age; yet fight by my side in the
next battle, which will win or lose for us this fair
province, and then all the graces aid you in your
suit at love's court!”

The two officers, after going the rounds of the
silent and well-guarded camp, within which a
thousand men were buried in as deep sleep as if
their heads lay beneath their own roofs, returned to
the tent they had left.

“I hear the breathing of our lovely guest within,
soft as that of an infant,” said the general. “It is
thus innocence only sleeps. Morning approaches,
my young cavalier, and you may keep watch and
ward, as becomes a new-made knight, beside this
temple; but enter it not, on thy knightly honour.
Or if, as I am inclined to think, sleep be more
welcome to a traveller than watching a maiden's
pillow, you will find within this adjoining tent furs
to form a couch. I will lie down in Horton's
quarters, for in two hours we must be on our
march.”

He threw himself upon the floor of the privates'
tent, beside half a dozen soldiers heavily sleeping,
with their muskets stacked in the centre, and was
soon asleep. The lover, protecting his person
from the snow by an ample fur robe which the general
had thrown to him, also laid down, but not
to sleep. By one of those accidents which strangely
favour lovers, his buffalo's hide had been placed
just without the canvass curtain forming the tent,
and so near it that, as he placed his head close to
the envious division, he could distinctly hear the
gentle suspirations of the sleeper within. Reclining

on his arm, with his face turned towards the
tent, he lay wrapped in a dreamy enchantment, his
ear receiving the soft modulations of her breathing,
till, at length, sleep stole upon his senses. He did
not awake until roused by the sudden roll of drums
and the piercing cry of fifes, as the drummers beat
the cheerful reveille to stir the soldiers from their
short repose, preparatory to resuming with the coming
dawn their rapid march.