CHAPTER VI.

How Ned Lost His Good Name, and Vere His Soul.

Two hundred dispirited men straggled wearily through the slough into which the spring thaws and rains had turned the Quebec road. The wagons laden with the unhappy wounded sank to their axles in the mud holes, and had to be lifted and pulled out by the men, many of their occupants begging to be laid by the roadside and left to die in peace. Then, too, they were continually in fear of being attacked by the American war ships, the road frequently running on the lake shore. Fortunately for them, the Americans had crossed the lake to attack Newark (Niagara-on-the-Lake) then the wealthiest town in Upper Canada, with its strong Fort George.

After weary days the little force crossed the only bridge Kingston had left standing, and its loosened planks clattered under their feet. At the news of the fall of York, Kingston had destroyed every bridge over the several rivers near her, except one, and that could easily have been fired had the enemy landed in the neighbourhood.

Vere had suffered a great deal during the retreat, but he recovered rapidly in the pleasant room given him, its windows showing a varied view of lake and river, and the harbour where the little war fleet of Lake Ontario lay, with the shipping that had escaped the enemy's sweep. As the barracks and officers' quarters were at the eastern extremity of the town, he could see much of Kingston itself, looking sedate and solid with its many stone buildings.

He was half dozing in pleasant contemplation of all when Sir John burst in upon him one morning. "Did you give the note you were carrying when you were wounded to Ned Edgar?" he asked sharply.

"Yes, sir. Why do you ask?" gasped Vere, his lips growing white as he remembered that in his fear he had forgotten the note, which lay in his pocket still.

Sir John did not see Vere's face. He had turned to the window. "I always feared Ned would come to a bad end," he was muttering. "He is missing now, and I hope will continue so--for his father's sake. Major Edgar came in with Roke this morning."

The deadly horror that had clutched Vere's heart relaxed its hold, for he did not fear sin, but punishment. Now he thought he had done no harm, for Ned was away somewhere, and might never meet these men who believed this of him. Then as Sir John left the room, he limped to the fire place, and dropped the paper on the flames. He was called that day before a court of inquiry into the loss of the "Gloucester", and gave his false evidence with no more reluctance than seemed natural in one who had been Ned's school friend. Edgar listened to him, his face calm, but his very soul scalded with the shame he believed Ned had brought upon him.

A week later Ned stood at the gate of Kingston Fort. He had lost his way completely in the woods, and had been found by a hunting party of Indians, who when they had got enough game, took it and him to Kingston. So Ned told his story, bewildered at the looks of the men who questioned him. What had he done but try to join his captain and company? Then suddenly his arms were jerked behind him and his wrists shackled with steel. Ned's eyes flamed, and he felt himself shaken with fury and resentment. But surely his father was there, and would never let any injustice be done him.

He was still looking for Edgar when he was brought before a court of bleak-eyed men, who were in hourly expectation of an attack on Kingston. Newark had sent for help they could not give--and they were in no mood to have mercy on anyone who did not do his duty at such a time. Ned's brain reeled as he heard the charge against him--of disobedience and cowardice. In a voice he did not recognize as his own, he answered, "I never saw this letter, sir, nor heard of it till now."

"Enter the plea, 'Not Guilty'," said the President shortly, as Roke was called, and told to tell what he had really seen.

"This man is my enemy," said Ned in a low tone to the officer appointed as his counsel, "He is saying this in revenge for a trick he thinks I played on him. If Ensign Haslem were alive and here he would say he gave me nothing. We only shook hands."

"Oh, you thought Ensign Haslem was dead and you could face the rest out," said the man. "You are certainly a cool one."

Ned did not hear him, Roke had told his tale and stepped down, and Vere, ghastly pale and limping, was taking the solemn oath. Then with no thought but to save himself, he betrayed the friend who had saved him--to death. In a low voice but without hesitation he answered the questions put him.

Like one in the grip of a ghastly nightmare Ned looked 'round him. He saw his father, with eyes that had love frozen in them. He knew Edgar believed him guilty too, and he looked despairingly through the window where the careless sunshine flashed on the open water under the tender May sky. Would God, who was so careful of the spring flowers and nesting birds, let the clean name he valued far more than life be taken from him? Was there any God?

The room grew black round him for an instant, for they were sentencing him to die--as a coward. The instinct of his blood made him set his teeth, and force himself to face them calmly--to walk steadily from the room, and back to his prison. But something seemed to give way in his brain, and when they left him there, chained in the darkness, he was very near the black bounds of insanity.

Vere had left the court directly he gave his evidence, and he looked in blank horror at Sir John when he heard the sentence, "You have influence, sir," he panted, "I thought--I hoped you would help him. He is not as much to blame as you think, and he saved me."

"What on earth do you mean?" Sir John exclaimed irritably.

The truth that would save his soul rose to Vere's lips, but his coward spirit kept it from passing them. "I meant he is so young," he stammered. "I should have given the note to an older man. And then if he had not put that bandage on, I should have bled to death before the surgeon reached me."

To Sir John, to be born a Haslem meant that a man could not lie. He had learned nothing from the old scandal buried in the graves of his reckless son, and the weak wicked woman he had married. Dr. Brown could have warned him that Vere needed the wisest training, and that drinking would surely rot the weak moral fibres he had inherited. Now at twenty he was, even when quite sober, a decaying soul.

Ned roused from a stupor, as a man entered his cell. It was Sells, the blackguard of the "Lightfoot", whom his regiment had managed to get rid of, and who was now in the garrison at Kingston. He felt Sells taking the irons off his legs, and the memory of everything swept over him like a flame. He shuddered as if fire had touched his flesh, then walked out quietly. A man waiting put his hand on his shoulder, and led him out of doors into a still night, where a big moon showed they were in a stump-filled field outside the fort.

They two were quite alone, and Ned felt some surprise. His escort's grip tightened upon his shoulder and he dug his fingers in convulsively. Ned said quietly--"Is it necessary to hold me so tightly, sir? I am not trying to run away."

The sound of his prisoner's voice seemed to madden the man. With an oath he flung Ned from him with all his strength. Ned went down heavily among the limestone outcroppings, and picked himself up, bruised and shaken, to face in the moonlight--his father.

Cursing him with the passion of a man utterly beside himself, Edgar broke out--"Why didn't you shoot yourself when you knew what you had done, instead of coming here to disgrace yourself, and your brothers and me? It's that infernal Methodism that's put the coward taint in your blood."

Ned crimsoned at the attack on his faith, and answered as passionately as his father--"Why isn't my word as good as Vere Haslem's? I tell you I never saw the letter."

He fell down again before his father's fist. There was blood on his lips where it had struck as he rose, and he did not try to speak again but stood with arms folded. He was indifferent if Edgar should kill him, which he seemed quite capable of doing.

"Go," said Edgar thickly, "before I shoot you. Go to the Yankees, curse them! You're the worst thing I could wish them to have. I only bribed your guard to help you to escape so that your punishment shouldn't disgrace your brothers. But if I ever meet you on Canadian soil again, I'll shoot you on sight. Go, before I do it now."

Ned went blindly into the bush, where a rough voice called him. He knew nothing and cared nothing. Coming to the shore, he was pushed upon a boat which dimly impressed him as a large schooner, and which set off at once across the lake. His brain clearing, he saw she was manned by a score of men, in the uniforms of both armies, deserters who instead of leaving one side to join the other, meant to form a gang with Sells for the leader, and hide in the woods near Niagara, plundering all they could. "And you want me to join you?" said Ned indifferently, as Sells explained their intentions to him.

"We'll make you want to. We want you, for Dr. Tam on the 'Lightfoot' said you could do a little of his job quite decently. We won't hurt you if you do as you are told, and as you seem one of the coward sort, we'll leave you behind when there's any fighting going on. We're taking you to mend hurts, not to make them, and you can amuse us too--give us a mock Methodist sermon when we're dull. I wonder what Ferguson will say when he hears that his pet ran away in the first battle? I never thought till I saw you in the court that you were like that."

In the darkness Ned's fists clenched, but he did not strike the mocking face before him. He felt that a blinded Justice had robbed him of the right to resent insult. So he answered sullenly, "Any man who was a coward would be glad to join you."

They took that for his assent, and left him to pretence of sleep. He lay listening to the talk of these men who had dropped all thought of decency and were thieves, and there came to him the temptation to end his life. This scum of society was henceforth to be the only class open to him--no honest man would ever touch his hand again. Why not "Curse God and die?"

In Kingston, the next morning, Ned's escape was discovered, but only Sells was blamed for helping him, and their names were posted together as deserters. No one paid much attention. Across the lake Fort George, the key to Niagara, was answering the heavy cannonade of the American fleet. And on that same day, May 27, the British war ships with a thousand men on board, left Kingston to attack Sackett's Harbour, hoping that the absence of the American fleet would enable them to capture the naval stores there. It was a day of double defeat. In the afternoon a carrier pigeon dropped into Kingston with a note that said Vincent, the commander at Fort George, running out of powder, had retired into the bush after spiking his guns and firing his stores. The Americans had not followed him, they having a very exaggerated idea of the number of Indians in the British service. They now held Newark, and the entire Niagara district.

Then the fleet came back from Sackett's Harbour, leaving three hundred men, dead, wounded, and missing, behind them. Among them was Edgar, who had volunteered to join the landing party, which had been hemmed in and captured.

[Illustration: "Dropped noiselessly overboard and swam ashore."]

And Ned, in the deserters' boat, as the dark madness that suggested suicide still held his mind, saw that the shore was near, and taking a musket, dropped noiselessly overboard and swam to shore. There he wandered into the bush, not knowing where, only avoiding every trail of man, for his brain had been so weakened by the shock of his unjust condemnation that he felt he was too disgraced ever to let any man of any nation see his face again. He shot some game, and spent a few days in a tiny limestone cave, then wandered on restlessly, sleeping one night in the bush. Waking the third morning in utter despair, he was almost surprised to hear himself calling out, "What shall I do?"

"Be good, that's all," said a clear voice near him, and he sprang up in alarm, to face Bee in a homespun skirt and calico sunbonnet. He heard the sound of chickens and cow-bells, and saw he was close to York.

"Ned Edgar!" she exclaimed in delight. "I am so used to have sentries stopping me everywhere, that when I heard you speak, I thought I had better say my name, and let you see me."

"Be good, that's all," repeated Ned, looking at her with dazed eyes. "But what can I do good now? Where shall I go?"

Bee gasped, dashed off, and was back in a minute with a brimming can of milk. "Drink this," she said severely, and as Ned obeyed, she added, "You are disgraceful; all the men I know are. They shoot each other, and get hurt, and go without proper meals, when they might be at home doing respectable work. Do you know a wonderful thing has happened? Cousin Betty has the dearest baby in the world, and she is here with Mamma Edgar, and Eli is taking care of us all. The baby's name is York--and Cousin Percy stays with his regiment at Lake Champlain, or somewhere. If I were he I would die if I didn't fly home and see my delicious baby the minute it came. But you must come to the house with me and have breakfast."

Revived by the milk, Ned followed Bee into York; desolate York with the ashes of her buildings lying black beside the fields no one had plowed or sown that spring. Ned missed the military life at the barracks, and the flag he had always seen over them. The American forces had left, Bee told him, but their ships came in constantly, and Eli was there now. There were few men in the place, no one came to trade, and the streets looked forlorn, for the blight of war was on the land.

Edgar's empty store, with its doors swinging idly open, gave Ned a shock. His father, Bee told him was a prisoner of war, but Susie would be glad to see him. Evidently the news of his disgrace had not reached York, but he knew he must not go under his father's roof, nor eat his bread. He began to say something of this, but Bee stopped him. "We will have breakfast out of doors, and eat what Eli brought."

"You don't understand, Miss Bee, what my father thinks I am."

"I can guess, I know Papa Edgar, but being an American I don't see things as he does. Eli and I have been hoping you would do it."

"I don't know what you are talking about, but you certainly don't know the truth, and you must hear it before we go any further."

Without preface he told her of his arrest at Kingston, and then the trial. Bee's bewilderment at the abrupt beginning changed to horror as he repeated Vere's evidence. "Poor Vere," she murmured.

"What do you pity him for?" said Ned roughly, "even if you do think me guilty."

"You? You are strong, you will soon get over this; it is only a little thing," (Ned wondered what her idea of serious trouble was) "but Vere was a traitor to you, and traitors must go to--to their own place." Her voice sank to a whisper, but she dared not say the terrible name.

The straight, strong faith he had accepted once came back to Ned then. Time seemed nothing beside eternity, the blundering injustice of men too little a thing to think of beside the awful Justice of God, high-throned in eternal calm. He raised his head for the first time since they had chained him at Kingston--"Then you do not think I am guilty, though Sir John does?" he asked her.

She laughed softly. "You a coward--who saved my brother!" she exclaimed, and before he guessed what she meant to do, she had kissed him on his forehead, flushing a little as the instinct of a young girl made itself felt through the impulsive abandon of a child. "That is what I think of you," she repeated. "I never kissed any man but Sir John, and Papa Edgar and Eli before, but I think I love you nearly as much as Eli, and I believe in you as much as I do in him. Now, sit right down here, while I get breakfast."

Ned sat down, but that kiss had given him back his courage and self-respect; he knew now what he could do. Then Bee came out again, followed by Chloe with a tray of dishes, and Eli with the coffee pot.

So they sat down to their pic-nic meal. Eli was startled at Ned's white face, and evident nervous condition, but put it down to dejection at the British defeats, and weeks of starving in the bush. He talked about the weather, and tried to stop Bee when she started on the war, but that young lady insisted on talking as she liked. "I hope this dreadful war is almost over," she said earnestly. "Upper Canada is conquered except Kingston and those few men from Fort George who are in the bush. Brother Eli, what are you making signs at me for? What are you trying to make me do?"

"Nothing, I assure you, my dear girl. I may be able to manage the crew of a ship, but I know I couldn't one woman, even a very young one. Do you ever let any body boss you, Bee?"

"Only Cousin Betty; I have to do all she says. She made a heap of regulations for my conduct, and put me on my honour to report to her when I break one. I always write my reports in a book and give it in to her. I made the book myself--its title is 'The sins of a Lifetime, being the Confessions of Miss Beatrice Truth Goode, of Boston.' And its motto is from that dearest Sir Walter Scott--'High minds most deeply feel thy pangs, Remorse.' Then I have to sew seams, for punishment, miles and miles of seams, I am sure. And now, Ned, I suppose you will have to lodge at Widow Giles. Mamma Edgar can't have you in the house after what your father said, but she will be delighted that you are looking after the place, we can't get a man to do anything. I don't understand the Canadian militia not coming in, when they know they have only to give their parole and go to their homes, where now just women and old men are trying to do the work; and as they can't put in crops enough, they will all be starving next winter. I am so glad you are sensible, and willing to be friends."

Ned stood up very embarrassed, and realizing that these friends, the only ones he seemed to have, were by the unnatural laws of war his enemies. "Captain Goode," he said, "I must apologize to you and Miss Bee. I think I lost my senses in the bush, for I forgot we were at war till this minute. I cannot give my parole, so must surrender myself to you as a prisoner."