III.—THE MARCH THROUGH THE WILDERNESS.
There was a day, my friends, when some Italian peasants, toiling in the
vineyards of their cloudless clime, beneath the shadow of those awful Alps,
that rise as if to the very Heavens, ran in terror to the village Priest, begging
him to pray for them, for the end of the world was coming.
The Priest calmly inquired the cause of all the clamor. Soon the mystery
was explained. Looking up into the white ravines of the Alps, the
peasants had seen an army coming down—emerging from that awful wilderness
of snow and ice, where the avalanche alone had spoken, for ages—
with cannons, and plumes, and banners, and a little man in a grey ridingcoat
in their midst.
That little man was named Napoleon Bonaparte—a YOUNG MAN, who
one day was starving in Paris for the want of a dinner, and the next held
France in the palm of his hand.
That was a great deed, the crossing of the Alps, by the young man, Napoleon,
but I will now tell you a bolder deed, done by the Patriot, Benedict
Arnold.
In April, 1775, that man Arnold stood behind a counter, mixing medicines,
pasting labels on phials, and putting poisons in their places.
In May, the Druggist Arnold, stood beside stout Ethan Allen, in the gate
of conquered Ticonderoga.
In September, the soldier Arnold was on his way to Quebec, through an
untrodden desert of three hundred miles.
One night, the young Commander Washington sat in his tent at Cambridge,
(near Boston,) with his eye fixed on the map of Canada, and his
finger laid on that spot marked Quebec.
While thus employed a soldier stood by his side.
“Give me two thousand men, General,” said he, “and I will take
Quebec.”
Washington answered this with a look of incredulous surprise.
“Three hundred miles of untrodden wilderness are to be traversed, ere
you can obtain even a glimpse of the rock of Quebec.”
“Yet I will go!” was the firm response of the soldier.
“But there are rocks, and ravines, and dense forests, and unknown lakes,
and impassable cataracts in the way,” answered Washington; “and then
the cold of winter will come on; your provisions will fail; your men will
be starved or frozen to death.”
Still that soldier was firm.
“Give me two thousand men, and I will go!”
Do you mark the bold brow—the clear, dark eye—the determined lip of
that soldier? Do you behold the face of Washington—utterly unlike your
vulgar pictures of the man—each outline moulded by a high resolve, the
eye gleaming chivalry, the brow radiant with the light of genius?
That soldier was Benedict Arnold.
Washington took him by the hand, and bade him go!
“Yes, go through the wilderness. Attack and possess Quebec. Then
the annexation of Canada will be certain; the American name will embrace
a Continent. Go! and God speed you on your journey.”
Did that great truth ever strike you? Washington did not fight for a
Half-America, or a Piece-America, but for the Continent, the whole Continent.
His army was not called the American, but the Continental
army. The Congress was not entitled American, but Continental. The
very currency was
Continental. In one word, Washington and his compatriots
were impressed with the belief that God had given the whole Continent
to the Free.—Therefore he gazed upon the map of Canada. Therefore,
pressing Arnold's hand, he bade him God speed!
And he did go. Yes, look yonder on the broad ocean. Behold that little
fleet of eleven vessels stealing along the coast, toward the mouth of the
Kennebec. That fleet, sailing on the 17th of September, 1775, contains
eleven hundred brave men, and their leader, Benedict Arnold.
They reach the mouth of the Kennebec—they glide along its cliff-embosomed
shores. These brave men are about to traverse an untrodden
wilderness of 300 miles, and then attack the Gibralter of America. If that
was not a bold idea, then the crossing of the Alps was a mere holiday
pastime.
Let us leave this little army to build their canoes near the mouth of the
Kennebec; let us hurry into the thick wilderness.
Even in these days of steam and rail-road cars, the Kennebec is beautiful.
Some of you have wandered there by its deep waters, and seen the smiles
of woman mirrowed in its wave. Some of you have gazed upon those high
cliffs, those shadowy glens, now peopled with the hum of busy life.
But in the day when Arnold dared its solitudes, there was a grandeur
stamped on these rocks and cliffs—a grandeur fresh from the hands of God.
Yet, even amidst its awful wilds, there was a scene of strange loveliness,
a picture which I would stamp upon your souls.
Stretching away from the dark waters of that river—where another
stream mingles with its flood—a wide plain, bounded by dense forests,
breaks on your eye.
As the glimmering day is seen over the eastern hills, there, in the centre
of the plain, stands a solitary figure, a lone Indian, the last of a line of kings;
yes, with his arms folded, his war-blanket gathered about his form, the
hatchet and knife lying idly at his feet—there stands the last of a long line
of forest kings, gazing at the ruins of his race.
The ruins of his race? Yes—look there! In the centre of that plain,
a small fabric arises under the shade of centuried oaks—a small fabric, with
battered walls and rude windows, stands there like a tomb in the desert, so
lonely, even amid this desolation.
Let us enter this rude place. What a sight is there! As the first gleam
of day breaks over the eastern hills, it trembles through those rude windows,
it trembles upon that shattered altar, that fallen cross.
Altar and cross? What do they here in the wilderness? And why
does that lone Indian—that last of the kings—who could be burned without
a murmur—why does he mutter wildly to himself as he gazes upon this
ruin?
Listen. Here, many years ago, dwelt a powerful Indian tribe, and here,
from afar over the waters, came a peaceful man, clad in a long coarse robe,
with a rude cross hanging on his breast. That peaceful man built the
church, reared the altar, planted the cross. Here, in the calmness of the
summer evening, you might see the red warrior with blunted war-knife,
come to worship; the little Indian child kneeling there, clasping its tiny
hands, as it learned, in its rude dialect, to lisp the name of Jesus; and here
the dark brown Indian maiden, with her raven hair falling over her bending
form, listened with dilating eyes, to that story of the virgin-mother.
Here, that man with the cross on his breast, lived and taught for twenty-five
years. Forsaking the delights of Parisian civilization, the altars and
monuments of the eternal city, he came here to teach the rude Indian that
he had a soul, that God cared for him, that a great Being, in a far distant
land, wept, prayed, and died for him, the dusky savage of the woods.
When he first came here, his hair was dark as night: here he lived until
it matched the winter's snow.
One Sabbath morn, just as the day broke over these hills, while man and
woman and child knelt before the altar, while the aged Priest stood yonder,
lifting the sacramental cup above his head, yes—my blood chill, as I write
it—on a Sabbath morning, as the worship of Almighty God was celebrated
in the church, all at once a horrid cry broke on the silent air! A cry, a
yell, a wild hurrah!
The cry of women, as they knelt for mercy, and in answer to their prayer
the clubbed rifle came crushing down—the yell of warriors shot like dogs
upon the chapel floor—the wild hurrah of the murderers, who fired through
these windows upon the worshippers of Jehovah!
There was a flame rising into that Sabbath sky—there were the horrid
shrieks of massacre ringing on the air, as men and women plunged into the
flood—while from yonder walls of rocks, the murderers picked them one by
one! The lonely plain ran with blood, down to the Kenebec, and the
dying who struggled in its waves, left but a bloody track on the waters, to
tell of their last fatal plunge!
And yonder, yes, in the church of God, kneeling beside that altar, clasping
that cross with his trembling hands, there crouched the old man as the
death-blow sank into his brain!
His white hair was dyed blood-red, even as the name of the Saviour
quivered from his lips.
Even, came—where a Nation had been, was now only a harvest of dead
bodies: where Religion had been, was now only and old man, murdered
beside his altar.
Yet still, in death, his right hand uplifted, clung to the fallen cross.
And who were the murderers?
I will not say that they were Christians, but they were white men, and
the children of white parents. They had been reared in the knowledge of
a Saviour; they had been taught the existence of a God. They were soldiers,
too, right brave men, withal, for they came with knife and rifle, skulking
like wolves along these rocks, to murder a congregation in the act of
worshipping their Maker.
Do you ask me for my opinion of such men? I cannot tell you. But
were this tongue mute, this hand palsied, I would only ask the power of
speech to say one word—the power of pen, to write that word in letters
of fire—and the word would be—Scorn!—Scorn upon the murderers
of Father Ralle!
And now, as the light of morning broke over the desolate plain, there
stood the lone Indian, gazing upon the ruins of his race. Natanis, the last
of the Norridgewocks, among the graves of his people!
But now he gazes far down the dark river—ha! what strange vision
comes here?
Yonder, gliding from the shelter of the deep woods, comes a fleet of
canoes, carrying strange warriors over the waters. Strange warriors, clad
in the blue hunting-frock, faced with fur; strange warriors, with powder-horn,
knife and rifle. Far ahead of the main body of the fleet, a solitary
canoe skims over the waters. That canoe contains the oarsmen, and another
form, wrapped in a rough cloak, with his head drooped on the breast, while
the eye flashes with deep thoughts—the form of the Napoleon of the wilderness,
Benedict Arnold.
Look! He rises in the canoe—he stands erect—he flings the cloak from
his form—he lifts the rough fur cap from his brow. Do you mark each
outline of that warrior-form? Do you note the bold thought now struggling
into birth over that prominent forehead, along that compressed lip, in the
gleam of those dark grey eyes, sunken deep beneath the brow?
He stands there, erect in the canoe, with outspread arms, as though he
would say—
“Wilderness, I claim ye as my own! Rocks, ye cannot daunt me;
cataracts, ye cannot appal! Starvation, death, and cold—I will conquer
ye all!”
Look! As he stands there, erect in the canoe, the Indian, Natanis, beholds
him, springs into the river and soon stands by his side.
“The Dark-Eagle comes to claim the wilderness,” he speaks in the wild
Indian tongue, which Arnold knows so well. “The wilderness will yield
to the Dark-Eagle, but the Rock will defy him. The Dark-Eagle will soar
aloft to the sun. Nations will behold him, and shout his praises. Yet
when he soars highest, his fall is most certain. When his wing brushes
the sky, then the arrow will pierce his heart!”
It was a Propheey. In joy or sorrow, in battle or council, in honor or
treason, Arnold never forgot the words of Natanis.
He joins that little fleet; he advances with Arnold into the Wilderness.
Let us follow him there!
Now dashing down boiling rapids, now carrying their canoes through
miles of forest, over hills of rock, now wading for long leagues, through
water that freezes to their limbs as they go, the little army of Arnold
advance.
On, brave Arnold, on! For you the awful mountain has no terrors, the
cold that stops the blood in its flowing, no fear. Not even the dark night
when the straggler falls dying by the way, and unknown ravines yawn far
below your path, not even the darker day when the little store of parehed
corn fails, and your famished soldiers feed on the flesh of dogs—when even
the snake is a dainty meal—not even terrors like these can scare your iron
soul! On, brave Arnold, on!
Look, at last, after dangers too horrible to tell, the little fleet is floating
down that stream, whose awful solitude gained it this name, THE RIVER OF
THE DEAD. Far over the waters, look! A tremendous mountain rises there
from the waters above all other mountains into the blue sky; white, lonely
and magnificent, an alabaster altar, to which the Angels may come to worship.
Under the shadow of this mountain the little army of Arnold encamped
for three days. A single, bold soldier, ascends the colossal steep; stands
there, far above, amid the snow and sunbeams, and at last comes rushing
down with a shriek of joy.
“Arnold!” he cries, “I have seen the rock and spires of Quebec!”
What a burst of joy rises from that little host! Quebec! the object of
all their hopes, for which they starve, and toil, and freeze! Hark! to that
deep-mouthed hurrah!
Benedict Arnold then takes from his breast,—where wrapped in close
folds he had carried it, through all his dreary march—a blue banner gleaming
with thirteen stars. He hoists it in the air. For the first time the
Banner of the Rights of Man, to which God has given his stars, floats over
the waters of the Wilderness.
On, brave Arnold, on! On over the deep rapids and the mountain rock;
on again in hunger and cold, until desertion and disease have thinned your
band of eleven hundred down to nine hundred men of iron; on, brave hero
—Napoleon on the Alps, Cortez in Mexico, Pizarro in Peru, never did a
bolder deed than yours!
Let us for a moment pause to look upon a picture of beauty, even in this
terrible march.
Do you see that dark lake, spreading away there under the shadow of
tall pines? Look up—a faint glimpse of starlight is seen there through the
intervals of the sombre boughs. The stars look down upon the deeps;
solitude is there in all its stillness, so like the grave.
Suddenly a red light flares over the waters. The gleam of fires redden
the boughs of these pines, flashes around the trunks of these stout oaks. The
men of Arnold are here, encamped around yonder deserted Indian wigwam,
whose rude timbers you may behold among the trees, near the brink of the
waters.
For an hour these iron men are merry! Yes, encamped by the wave
of Lake Chaudiere. They roast the ox amid the huge logs; they draw the
rich salmon and the speckled trout from these waters. Forgive them if the
drinking horn passes from lip to lip; forgive them if the laugh and song go
round!—Forgive them—for to-morrow they must go on their dread march
again; to-morrow they must feed on the bark of trees, and freeze in cold
waters again—forgive them for this hour of joy.
Now let us follow them again; let us speak to brave Arnold, and bid
him on!
O, these forests are dark and dense, these rocks are too terrible for us to
climb, the cold chills our blood, this want of bread maddens our brain—but
still brave Arnold points toward Quebec, and bids them on!
Hark! That cry, so deep, prolonged, maddening, hark, it swells up into
the silence of night; it stops the heart in its beating. On, my braves! It
is but the cry of a comrade who has missed his footing, and been dashed
to pieces against the rocks below.
It is day again. The sun streams over the desolate waste of pines and
snow. It is day; but the corn is gone—we hunger, Arnold! The dog is
slain, the snake killed; they feast, these iron men. Then, with canoes on
their shoulders, they wade the stream, they climb the mountain, they crawl
along the sides of dark ravines. Upon the waters again! Behold the
stream boiling and foaming over its rocky bed. Listen to the roaring of the
torrent. Now guide the boat with care, or we are lost; swerve not a hair's
breadth, or we are dashed to pieces. Suddenly a crash—a shout—and lo!
Those men are struggling for their lives amid the wrecks of their canoes.
But still that voice speaks out: “Do not fear my iron men; gather the
wrecks, and leap into your comrades' canoes. Do not fear, for Quebec is
there!”
At last two long months of cold, starvation and death are past; Arnold
stands on Point Levy, and there, over the waters, sees rising into light the
rock and spires of Quebec!
Napoleon gazing on the plains of Italy, Cortez on the Halls of Montezuma,
never felt such joy as throbbed in Arnold's bosom then!
It was there, there in the light, no dream, no fancy; but a thing of substance
and form, it was there above the waters, the object of bright hopes
and fears; that massive rock, that glittering town.
At last he beheld—Quebec!
