Laura Secord, the heroine of 1812 Part 6

(Mrs. Secord _crosses the road, takes a rail out of the fence, which she replaces after having pa.s.sed into the clearing, and proceeds to the barn, whence she brings an old pail, luckily left there, and approaches the cow_.)

_Mrs. Secord_ (_aside_). Could I but get her out of sight, I'd drive The creature round the other way, and go My own. Pray Heaven the sentry watch me not Too closely; his manner roused my fears.

[_She waves her hand at the cow, which moves on_.

Co' boss! co' boss. s.h.!.+ Haste thee, poor cow; Fly from me! though never didst thou yet: Nor should'st do now, but for the stake I play.

[_Both disappear in the bush_.

_Sentry_ (_apostrophising the disappearing "enemy"_). Well, mistress, were you gentle as your face, The creature wouldn't run you such a race.

It serves you right! The cows my Anna milks, Come at her call, like chickens. O, sweet voice, When shall I hear you next? Even as I pace With measured step this hot and dusty road, The soft June breezes take your tones, and call, "Come, Henry, come." Would that I could!

Would I had never joined!

But my hot blood o'ermastered my cool sense, Nor let me see that always is not bought Honour by arms, but often dire disgrace.

For so it is, as now I clearly see, We let the animal within remain Unbroke, till neither gyve nor gear will serve To steady him, only a knock-down blow.

Had I, and others, too, within the ranks, Haltered our coltish blood, we should have found That hate to England, not our country's name And weal, impelled mad Madison upon this war; And shut the mouths of thousand higher men Than he.

It is a lesson may I learn So as to ne'er forget, that in the heat of words Sparks oft are struck that should be straightway quenched In cool reflection; not enlarged and fed With pa.s.sionate tinder, till a flame is blown That reaches past our bonds, and leaves behind Black, sullen stumps where once the green trees grew.

If honour's what we want, there's room enough For that, and wild adventure, too, in the West, At half the cost of war, in opening up A road shall reach the great Pacific.

(_A step_). Ha! Who goes there?

[_Exit_.

SCENE 5.--_The Road at the foot of Queenston Heights_.

_Mrs. Secord_ (_looking in the direction of her home_). Gone!

Gone! Quite out of sight! Farewell, my home, Casket that holds my jewels! If no more My happy eyes rest on thy lowly roof, If never more my ears drink in the sounds Of sweeter music, in your loving tones, My darlings, than e'er was drawn from harp The best attuned, by wandering Aeolus, Then let my memory, like some fond relic laid In musk and lavender, softly exhale A thousand tender thoughts to soothe and bless; And let my love hide in your heart of hearts, And with ethereal touch control your lives, Till in that better home we meet again.

(_She covers her face with her hands, and weeps unrestrainedly for a few seconds, then recovers herself, and raises her hands in prayer_.)

Guard them and me, O Heaven.

[_She resumes her journey, but still gazes In the direction of the Heights_.

And Brock! McDonnell! Dennis!

All ye hero band, who fell on yonder Heights!

If I should fall, give me a place among ye, And a name will be my children's pride, For all--my all--I risk, as ye, to save My country.

[_Exit_.

ACT II.

SCENE I.--_The great kitchen at St. David's Mill. Breakfast-time_.

_At the board are seated the_ Widow Stephen Secord, Sergeant George Mosier, _and little_ Tom. Babette _is waiting at table_.

_Widow_. 'Tis pitiful to see one's land go waste For want of labour, and the summer days, So rich in blessing, spend their fruitful force On barren furrows. And then to think That over both the Provinces it is the same,-- No men to till the land, because the war Needs every one. G.o.d knows how we shall feed Next year: small crop, small grist,--a double loss To me. The times are anxious.

(_To Sergeant Mosier_.) Have you news?

_Sergeant_. Not much, ma'am, all is pretty quiet still Since Harvey struck them dumb at Stony Creek.

Along the Lake bold Yeo holds them fast, And, Eric-way, Bisshopp and Evans back him.

Thus stand we now; but Proctor's all too slow.

O had we Brock again, bold, wise, and prompt, That foreign rag that floats o'er Newark's spires Would soon go down, and England's ensign up.

_Widow_. Ah, was he not a man! and yet so sweet, So courteous, and so gentle.

_Babette_. _Ah, oui, madame_.

So kind! not one rough word he ever had, The _General_, but bow so low, "_Merci, Babette_,"

For gla.s.s of milk, _et pet.i.t chose comme ca_.

Ah, long ago it must be he was French: Some _grand seigneur, sans doute_, in Guernsey then.

Ah the brave man, madame, _ce hero la!_

_Widow_. Yes, brave indeed, Babette, but English, English.

Oh, bravery, good girl, is born of n.o.ble hearts, And calls the world its country, and its s.e.x Humanity.

_Babette_. Madame?

_Widow_. You do not understand me, not; but you Were very brave and n.o.ble-hearted when You faced the wolf that scented the young lambs.

_Babette_. _Brave! moi!_ Madame is kind to say it so.

But bravery of women--what is that To bravery of man?

_Tom_. An' that's just what I said to Hatty, mother, When she declared that Aunty Laura was As brave as soldiers, 'cause she went an' fetched Poor Uncle James from off the battlefield.

After the fight was over. That wasn't much!

_Widow_. You're but an ignorant little boy, my son, But might be wiser were you not so pert.

_Sergeant_. I heard not that before, ma'am.

_Widow_. Did you not?

'Tis very true. Upon that dreadful day, After Brock fell, and in the second fight, When with the Lincoln men and Forty-first Sheaffe led the attack, poor Captain Secord dropped, Shot, leg and shoulder, and bleeding there he lay, With numbers more, when evening fell; for means Were small to deal with wounded men, and all, Soldiers and citizens, were spent and worn With cruel trials. So when she learned he lay Among the wounded, his young wife took up A lantern in her hand, and searched the field-- Whence sobs and groans and cries rose up to heaven And paled the tearful stars--until she found The man she loved, not sure that life remained.

Then binding him as best she might, she bore, With some kind aid, the fainting body home,-- If home it could be called where rabid hate Had spent its lawless rage in deeds of spite; Where walls and roof were torn with many b.a.l.l.s, And shelter scarce was found.

That very night, Distrustful lest the foe, repulsed and wild, Should launch again his heavier forces o'er The flood, she moved her terror-stricken girls-- Four tender creatures--and her infant boy, Her wounded husband and her two young slaves, 'Neath cover of thick darkness to the farm, A mile beyond: a feat even for a man.

And then she set her woman's wit and love To the long task of nursing back to health Her husband, much exhaust through loss of blood, and all the angry heat of gunshot wounds.

But James will never be himself again Despite her care.

_Sergeant_. 'Twas well and bravely done.

Yet oft I think the women of these days Degenerate to those I knew in youth.

_Widow_. You're hasty, Sergeant, already hath this war Shown many a young and delicate woman A very hero for--her hero's sake; Nay, more, for others'. She, our neighbour there At Queenston, who when our troops stood still, Weary and breathless, took her young babe, Her husband under arms among the rest, And cooked and carried for them on the field: Was she not one in whom the heroic blood Ran thick and strong as e'er in times gone by?

O Canada, thy soil is broadcast strown With n.o.ble deeds: a plague on him, I say, Who follows with worse seed!