CHAPTER XV

_Home No More_

Throughout the summer there were exciting times along the lake country. The affairs of Stony Creek and Beaver Dams were the ones most affecting the inhabitants of the Niagara frontier, while lesser skirmishes and conflicts did not give time for much respite from anxiety. Kate and Sue remained quietly at home. Royal, being still under parole and allowed to remain with them, could be on hand to look after matters requiring a man's attention, while Fred was stationed near by with the troops at Fort George.

Marianne and her mother had returned to their home across the river, and with Jerusha and Mark managed affairs, but lived in a state of dread and anxiety for the safety of their friends of both sides. Captain Reyburn was constantly on duty, and although after the unfortunate issue of the fight in the Beechwoods the American troops did not make many ventures, there was a feeling of uncertainty and apprehension about, which served to make this a most uncomfortable time. Jerusha, however, was never in better spirits. There was occasion for the display of her best efforts at cheerfulness, and her depression decreased in proportion to the greatness of the reverses reported.

"I don't believe you care one bit for our success," Marianne complained. "You are so disagreeably cheerful, Jerusha. One would think it was a wedding you were talking about, instead of a battle."

"A weddin'," sniffed Jerusha. "I guess I'd be sorry enough to see any poor misguided woman throw herself away on any man, let alone myself. Thank goodness, I'm beyond any hopes or fears of marriage."

"You'd better not be too sure," returned Marianne. "There's Asa Peaslee, if he ever comes back. I heard him say you were 'a fine figger of a woman.' You don't know what may be in store for you."

"As if I'd look twice at that little weazly-faced crittur," Jerusha scoffed.

"I'm sure I caught you making eyes at him," Marianne continued, bent upon teasing.

"Me make eyes at that poor little atomy! I can put my eyes to better use, and my ears, too. I don't give no heed to the maunderin' of that runt of a pedler. I kin tell you a tale worth two of yours. I heard that Mis' Secord acrost the river carried the word to them Britishers, and they was on the look-out for Colonel Boerstle and his men. She walked through the woods for miles to get FitzGibbons the information. Now, I call that brave, if she is an enemy."

"Yes, it was brave enough, but plenty of our women were as brave and braver in the Revolution. I'd do the same if I had a chance, and so would you. The reason why they make such a fuss over it, is because it isn't usual for their women to show so much spunk, while ours are always doing such things." Marianne was not disposed to give Mrs. Secord any too much credit.

"Mebbe that's so, but 'tain't no good to try to belittle her, if it is so. They've had a bad fight. Your pa wa'n't in it, I'm glad to say."

"No, he wasn't there, but I don't know about Royal. He expected to be exchanged by this time."

"What about that boy Jack? You ain't seen him this good bit?"

"No, nor heard of him."

"He's kind of relation of yourn, now your brother's married his sister. Jack is a good sort of boy, if he is a miserable Britisher."

Marianne was silent. She had many things to think of these days. She wondered how it would be when the war was over; how she would settle her own life. She thought of Sue and Kate and Victorine and Victor. She was well aware of her grandmother's anxiety to see her the wife of Victor, but she felt that there was quite time enough, besides--She gave her head an impatient jerk, and arose from where she had been sitting lost in thought. "Father wants us to go to Uncle Tom's," she announced. "He said it is farther inland, and we'll be safer there beyond the Genesee, but I don't want to go, and mother says she will not desert her people."

"She's right," agreed Jerusha. "I wouldn't go either, if any of my folks was in danger."

"Then you think we really are in danger?"

"There's no doubt of that at any time. If it ain't the terror that flieth by night, it is the noisome pestilence."

Even then the danger was, indeed, near. The disturbing summer passed away, and before the close of the year the Americans were ready to withdraw their troops from Fort George. The common occurrences of war had given the inhabitants in the country around a sad year. Whichever side they might favor, they were, nevertheless, sufferers from foraging parties and from the lawless marauders who demolished houses, drove off the cattle, and played havoc generally.

"There's dreadful goings on at the other side of the river," said Jerusha, coming in one morning in early December. "I hope I'm a good American, but I must say I don't uphold the 'abomination of desolation.' I suppose 'nation must war against nation and kingdom against kingdom.' The Bible says so. 'And there shall be fearful sights, and signs there shall be from heaven,' and I say, 'Let them that are in Judea flee to the mountain.'"

"What are you talking about, Jerusha?" Marianne asked, as Jerusha set down a plate of hot cakes upon the table.

"I'm talkin' about the burning of Newark. I suppose you have not heard that they've turned out men, women, and children, the young and the old, into the cold, and have burnt the town. 'Vengeance is mine, I will repay, saith the Lord,' but we'll get it here, I'm afraid. If them Britishers and Injuns is let loose on us, then look out."

"Oh, dear, dear," said Marianne, setting down her cup of coffee, "you are so alarming, Jerusha. Just think of the splendid victories on the lakes and the ocean. Our own Captain Perry, whom father knows so well--just think of that good whipping he gave the British. I like his message, 'We have met the enemy and they are ours.' And think, too, of General Harrison having Malden and Detroit, and of Tecumseh's being killed, and of all those prisoners we have. I think it looks very promising, and I don't see what we need to be afraid of."

"You wait and see," returned Jerusha. "There shall be signs from heaven, and the sun set blood red last night, and I dreamed that the stars were blood red too, and descended in a shower upon us. If that ain't a sign, I don't know what is; and one easy enough to read. The redcoats will descend upon us, and the redskins will follow."

"Nonsense, Jerusha," Mrs. Reyburn spoke up, sharply, "don't scare the child to death. It is true these are evil days, but the sufferers are our friends across the river, and not ourselves. I pray God my mother and her family are safe."

"Fort George is evacuated, I'm told," said Jerusha, "and I suppose that takes Mis' Lyle's husband from her."

"And if Royal is away at Burlington, where he expected to go, Kate and Sue are all alone. Dear, dear, I hope they will not be harmed."

"I hope Royal will be allowed to stay. He has friends on his father's side, and has received much consideration from that fact. Then his brother-in-law is in the American army, and has, so far, been able to use his influence; so it may be that he has not gone."

"Perhaps the farmhouses have been left, even if they have burned the town," Marianne said hopefully.

Jerusha shook her head. "There's scarce a farmhouse left, they say. I'm surprised Mis' Desvouges has hers, but I guess it's because she has friends to protect it. All I say is that when our hour will come, no man knoweth. I think, Mis' Reyburn, that we'd ought to be goin' somewheres else."

"It would not be any safer at mother's," she replied. "I think we will stay here for the present, Jerusha, and run our chances with our neighbors."

It was very cold, and snow had already begun to fall. "It is pitiful to think of those poor, homeless people turned out at this time of year," said Marianne, looking out of the window, about a week later. "Ah, mother dear, I am less light-hearted than I was a year ago, when we had our husking-bee. I had hardly begun to realize then how terrible war can be. I pray you, Jerusha, don't dream of red stars again to-night."

Whatever Jerusha's dreams might have been, the next morning brought danger to their very doors. The distant noise of firing came to them at daybreak. A single cannon shot fired from Fort Niagara at five o'clock was a portentous sound. It meant that on, on were coming the vengeful invaders. Down the road to Lewiston they advanced, ransacking and burning every house in sight.

Marianne awakened to a day of terror; for, before the inmates of the house had time to realize their imminent peril, a yelling, hooting, shrieking horde of Indians were approaching the house, and the British soldiers, scarcely less eager, were bent upon destroying everything in their path. Fort Niagara, with its valuable stores, was taken, the savages were let loose, and death and destruction faced the inhabitants of the quiet villages upon the east shore of the river.

At the first sight of the enemy, Mrs. Reyburn shrieked to her daughter: "They come! The Indians! Run for your life! Marianne! Marianne! Where are you, Jerusha? We must escape while we can!"

"Must we leave our home to be destroyed?" cried Marianne, wringing her hands. "Can we save nothing, mother?"

"Nothing but our lives; and we'll be lucky if we get off with those," Jerusha told her, grimly. "I saw Mark legging it up the road as soon as the gun was fired. There's not a minute to be lost, Marianne. You've got to come along. Get something warm as quick as you can, and come."

"Where?"

"Don't ask me where," said Jerusha. "Anywhere we can git."

Trembling in every limb, Marianne clad herself as warmly as possible in the time given her; and with a hastily prepared bundle of provisions which Jerusha scrambled together, they set out, running till they were breathless, across fields and over stones and drifts of snow. Suddenly Mrs. Reyburn slipped and fell, giving a moan of pain when she attempted to rise. "I am afraid I have either twisted my ankle or broken a bone," she said. "Go on, go on, I pray you! Don't wait for me, I beg of you!"

Jerusha came to a halt, and looked down at the little woman whose face was drawn with pain. Marianne was down on her knees in an instant. "Leave you, dearest mother? Not while I live. If we must die, we will die together."

"Go on, go on!" begged Mrs. Reyburn. "My child, my child, I cannot see you die!"

Jerusha's gaunt form straightened itself up. "I guess I kin lug you," she said briefly. And picking Mrs. Reyburn up in her arms, she strode on, Marianne by her side. Mrs. Reyburn's face was bravely set, and she begged them to leave her, for they were now not able to make very good speed, and a running, leaping, howling band of Indians gained upon them at every step. These were followed closely by a company of soldiers.

The house had already been looted, and the torch applied: it was now bursting into flames, and in the red firelight the howling savages danced and yelled. Nearer and nearer came the pursuers. Now they could see the painted faces, now the gleam of the tomahawks.

But not so fast did they run but the men behind kept up with them; and they had scarce touched their victims, before a young soldier made a great leap, and placed himself in front of the fugitives. "Stop!" he cried. "Not a hair of their heads shall be hurt! Come, boys, help me to protect these ladies; they are friends."

The sudden halt gave the white men time to rally to the side of the young man, who valiantly stood his ground. But the cold hand of an Indian had already clutched Marianne's brown locks, and she had been dragged some distance off, where she lay face down, momentarily expecting that the death-blow would be given her. Indeed, the keen-bladed knife was already uplifted to do its frightful work, when it was sent spinning into the snow, and, with a savage grunt, the Indian sprang to recover it. Fear and horror had already sent Marianne into a state of blessed oblivion; and she was scarcely conscious, when, seeing the danger they would both be in from the enraged savage, frustrated in his bloody design, the young soldier seized the girl in his arms, and ran with all his speed away from the spot. Seeing his design, his friends fell upon the Indian and secured him.

Jerusha, with determined front, faced the soldiers. Mrs. Reyburn weakly begged to be put down. "Let them kill me, Jerusha," she whispered, "and you may still be able to escape."

Jerusha gave a sardonic laugh. "I'd look pretty trying to escape," she said. "I kin jump pretty high, but I guess I couldn't clear the heads of twenty men."

At the sound of her voice there was a movement in the company, and a man stepped wonderingly forward. "Jerushe!" he exclaimed, "it is thou!"

Jerusha almost dropped her burden in her surprise. "I guess it is me, Jooly Fooshay," she replied.

"You have, then, not forgot me. Gentlemen, I present my wife."

Jerusha stood imperturbably staring at the laughing soldiers, who thought this a good joke.

"I have ze plaisir to save thy life, my Jerushe," said the man, smiling.

"I guess I'm not under such special obligation for that," returned Jerusha. "I don't know as I'm particular about it, if I've got to pass the rest of it with you."

Her sharp repartee entertained the listeners, and they began to applaud her and to jeer at their comrade, who took it all good-naturedly, saying: "All same, it is ze wife of me; I am lose her zis long time. I am now ask you to accompany us to ze garrison. See you, my friends, to ze lady she has in charge. I myself will accompany my wife." Two soldiers volunteered to carry Mrs. Reyburn, and Jerusha stalked silently along by the side of her newly found husband. Finding themselves deprived of any trophies in this direction, the Indians took another way, and the little company proceeded to the fort.

Marianne, meanwhile, was very quickly borne along in a pair of stalwart arms. She was conscious of the fact that her life had been spared, but to what purpose she felt dimly uncertain. The soldier held her as he would a baby, and she lay with closed eyes, feeling helplessly indignant as she grew to a better consciousness of her plight. It was useless to resist. Any effort to struggle might bring worse trouble upon her, and she concluded to lie quietly. She could only pray that her mother and Jerusha had been saved, and that she might be allowed to plead for her own life.

The smoke of the burning of her home came to her nostrils, and she lifted her head to see what was to fill her with distress, and yet which was to possess her with a strange fascination. "Don't look, Marianne," said her rescuer, tenderly. "I thought you had fainted, poor little girl." And Marianne for the first time was aware who it was who held her.

"Jack," she said faintly. "Oh, Jack." The relief was so great that she began to sob, great tearless, heart-breaking gasps.

"Poor little girl, dear little Marianne," said Jack. "You are safe; don't do so."

"I--I--can't help it," she gasped.

"Well, if it does you any good, cry all you please. I am glad you can. I think we are safe now. We are coming to the woods, and I will put you down." He set her gently on the ground as he would a child. He was evidently much unstrung himself and stood for a minute looking at the trembling little figure.

Marianne gradually recovered herself. "You have saved my life," she said. "Oh, Jack, to think in God's mercy it should have been you. I am thankful. I have not words to say how thankful."

Jack's voice shook as he replied: "So am I. My God, Marianne, when I think of that moment when I saw you in the hands of that horrible painted savage and feared I was too late--I feel I cannot say how thankful that I determined to follow the party. I had a deadly fear that you might not have been warned, and I was determined to save you if I could. I have little taste for such horrors as we have witnessed this morning. I want you to believe that I did not come out to distress innocent women and children."

"I know that," said Marianne, simply. "But mother and Jerusha? Did you see? Do you think they are safe?"

"They are, I feel sure. There were enough of my friends to see to it that they were freed. But it is too cold for you to stand here. Shall I carry you again, or would you rather walk? I think there must be a shelter somewhere."

"There is a little cabin two or three miles away in the woods; it is very lonely there, and no one would be likely to find it, unless he knew just where to look for it. Some people live there, a hunter and his wife. Unless the place has been discovered and burned, I think they will take me in. It is in that direction," she indicated by a wave of the hand. "It is in such a lonely spot that I hope it has been overlooked."

"I think it more than probable. Shall we go? I think it might be better than if you were to try to get to the garrison, for we may come across another band of Indians; and one man against a number, especially when they are on the war-path, has not much chance, even though he be a friend. They might not hurt me, but would perhaps harm you."

Marianne shuddered and turned so pale that Jack hastened to reassure her that she was safe. "You have nothing on your head, and it is so cold." He drew a handkerchief from his pocket and tied it under her chin. The sight of her pale face and fear-stricken eyes nearly unnerved him, but he strove to distract her thoughts by harking back to the days of their first acquaintance, and they managed to keep up a desultory talk upon indifferent subjects until at last the little cabin was discerned; but upon reaching it they found it deserted. The family had taken alarm and had fled with so many of their neighbors that long processions were formed upon the roads west of the Genesee.

In spite of the empty house Jack's cheerfulness and his quality of making the best of things asserted themselves. "It's much better than being out of doors," he said. "I will make a fire and see if they have left us anything to eat. After that we will find out what is to be done next."

The place was neat and clean, and the family in their flight had taken only their clothing and their most necessary articles, so these later comers found sufficient for their needs. A cracked cup, an iron skillet, a pewter spoon, and a few such things stood upon a shelf in the cupboard depleted of all provisions but a little meal. Jack, however, found a sack of potatoes in a bin at the back of the kitchen, and some grain in the small stable. He brought a handful of the potatoes back with him after he had made his tour of investigation, and exhibited them in triumph. He built a rousing fire on the hearth, and they roasted the potatoes in the ashes, becoming quite cheerful in the warmth and comfort.

"If we only had some hot coffee, we would be faring very well," said Jack, as he tried one of the potatoes to see if it were done.

Marianne looked thoughtfully into the fire. "Didn't you say there was some rye in the stable?" she asked.

"Yes, I think there is a very little."

"Then if you will bring me some, we can brown it and pound it up and make a very good sort of drink; that is, if you are not too hungry to wait for it. There is some maple sugar in the cupboard; I found it in a crock, but we haven't milk."

"Who cares for milk? I'll get the rye." It took some time to prepare their rye coffee; but with this addition to their meal they felt themselves well served, and were fairly merry over their breakfast.

The warm food and drink brought a little color into Marianne's cheeks, though she was still very nervous and started at the slightest sound, sometimes finding it impossible to keep back the tears. Once she gave way entirely and put her head down on the table, sobbing so hopelessly that it was too much for Jack. He came over and knelt by her side, taking her hands in his:--

"Marianne, Marianne, don't cry so, little girl! You are safe here; and as soon as we can go, I will take you over to your grandmother. I will not leave you a minute alone. You know I would shed my last drop of blood for you. What do other men do who see those they love massacred before their very eyes? When I think of your being spared such a horrible fate, I think only of being glad."

"Don't Jack, don't. You have saved my life," the words came haltingly, "but don't talk so."

"I'm a wretch," he cried, springing to his feet. "I'm a pretty soldier to allow myself to get unstrung, but the sight of your tears was too much for me. I ought to have known better than to distress you. Come, we won't talk about it any more. The thing to do is to decide what is to be done next."