(_She rises and prepares for making pies_. Babette _clears off the table, and_ Sergeant George _smokes his pipe, sitting close to the open chimney, now filled with fresh branches of spruce and cedar_.)

_Sergeant_. Well, mistress, p'rhaps you're right; old folks aye think Old times the best; but now your words recall The name of one, the bravest of her s.e.x, So far as e'er I saw, save, p'rhaps, the Baroness.

Tender of frame, most gentle, softly raised, And young, the Lady Harriet Acland shared, With other dames whose husbands held commands, The rough campaign of 'Seventy-six.

But her lot fell so heavy, and withal She showed such spirit, cheerfulness, and love, Her name became a watchword in the ranks.

_Widow_. And what about her, Sergeant?

_Sergeant_. Well, mistress, as you ask I'll tell the tale: She was the wife of Major John d.y.k.e-Acland, An officer of Grenadiers, then joined To Highland Frazer's arm of Burgoyne's troops.

At Chamblee he was wounded. Leaving the Fort, His wife crossed lake and land, by means so rough As tried the strength of men, to nurse him.

Recovered; next he fought Ticonderoga, And there was badly wounded. Lake Champlain She traversed to his aid in just a batteau.

No sooner was he better, than again He joined his men, always the first to move, And so alert their situation was, That all slept in their clothes. In such a time The Major's tent took fire, and he, that night, But for a sergeant's care, who dragged him out, Had lost his life. Twice saved he was; For thinking that his wife still lay within, Burning to death, he broke away, And plunged into the fiery ma.s.s. But she, Scarce half awake, had crept from out the tent, And gained her feet in time to see him rush In search of her--a shuddering sight to one Loving and loved so well. But luckily, Both then were saved. She also shared the march That followed up the foe, action impending At every step; and when the fight began, Though sheltered somewhat, heard all the din, The roar of guns, and bursting sh.e.l.ls, and saw The h.e.l.lish fire belch forth, knowing the while Her husband foremost in the dreadful fray.

Nay, more; her hut was all the shelter given To dress the wounded first; so her kind eyes Were forced to witness sights of ghastly sort, Such as turn surgeons faint; nor she alone, Three other ladies shared her anxious care: But she was spared the grief they knew too soon, Her husband being safe.

But when Burgoyne At Saratoga lost the b.l.o.o.d.y day, The Major came not back--a prisoner he, And desperate wounded. After anxiety So stringent and prolonged, it seemed too much To hope the lady could support such sting And depth of woe, yet drooped she not; but rose And prayed of Burgoyne, should his plans allow, To let her pa.s.s into the hostile camp, There to beseech for leave to tend her husband.

Full pitifully Burgoyne granted her The boon she asked, though loath to let her go; For she had pa.s.sed hours in the drenching rain, Sleepless and hungry; nor had he e'en a cup Of grateful wine to offer. He knew Her danger, too, as she did,--that she might fall In cruel hands; or, in the dead of night Approaching to the lines, be fired on.

Yet yielding to her prayer, he let her go, Giving her all he could, letters to Gates, And for her use an open boat.

Thus she set forth, with Chaplain Brudenell For escort, her maid, and the poor Major's man-- Thus was she rowed adown the darkling stream.

Night fell before they reached the enemy's posts, And all in vain they raised the flag of truce, The sentry would not even let them land, But kept them there, all in the dark and cold, Threatening to fire upon them if they stirred Before the break of day. Poor lady! Sad Were her forebodings through those darksome hours, And wearily her soft maternal frame Bore such great strain. But as the dark Grows thickest ere the light appears, so she Found better treatment when the morning broke.

With manly courtesy, proud Gates allowed Her wifely claim, and gave her all she asked.

_Widow_. Could he do less! Yes, Sergeant, I'll allow Old times show tender women bold and brave For those they love, and 'twill be ever so.

And yet I hold that woman braver still Who sacrifices all she loves to serve The public weal.

_Sergeant_. And was there ever one?

_Widow_. Oh, yes--

_Enter_ MRS. SECORD.

Why, Laura! Now you're just too late To have your breakfast with us. But sit down.

(_She calls_.) Babette! Babette!

_Enter_ BABETTE.

Haste, girl, and make fresh tea, Boil a new egg, and fry a bit of ham, And bring a batch-cake from the oven; they're done By this.

[_Exit_ BABETTE.

(_To Mrs. Secord_.) Take off your things, my dear; You've come to stay a day or two with Charles, Of course. He'll be awake just now. He's weak, But better. How got you leave to come?

[SERGEANT GEORGE _is leaving the kitchen_.

Stay, Sergeant, you should know James Secord's wife, Poor Charles's sister.

(_To Mrs. Secord_.) Laura, this is a friend You've heard us speak of, Sergeant George Mosier, My father's crony, and poor Stephen's, too.

_Mrs. Secord (curtesying)_. I'm glad to meet you, sir.

_Sergeant (bowing low)_. Your servant, madam, I hope your gallant husband is recovered.

_Mrs. Secord_. I thank you, sir, his wound, but not his strength, And still his arm is crippled.

_Sergeant_. A badge of honour, madam, like to mine,

[_He points to his empty sleeve_.

_Enter_ BABETTE _with tray_.

[_Exit_ SERGEANT GEORGE.

_Widow_. That's right, girl, set it here. (_To Mrs. Secord_.) Come eat a bit.

That ham is very nice, 'tis Gloucester fed, And cured-malt-coombs, you know, so very sweet.

(_To Babette_.) Mind thou the oven, la.s.s, I've pies to bake, And then a brisket.

[_Exit_ BABETTE.

(_To Mrs. Secord_.) I thought you fast Within the lines: how got you leave to come?

_Mrs. Secord_. I got no leave; three several sentries I, With words of guile, have pa.s.sed, and still I fear My ultimate success. 'Tis not to see Poor Charles I came, but to go further on To Beaver Dam, and warn Fitzgibbon there Of a foul plot to take him by surprise This very night. We found it out last eve, But in his state poor James was helpless, So I go instead.

_Widow_. You go to Beaver Dam! Nineteen long miles On hot and dusty roads, and all alone!

You can't, some other must.

_Mrs. Secord_. I must, no other can. The time is short, And through the virgin woods my way doth lie, For should those sentries meet, or all report I pa.s.sed their bounds, suspicion would be waked, And then what hue and cry!

_Widow_. The woods! and are you crazed? You cannot go!

The woods are full of creatures wild and fierce, And wolves prowl round about. No path is blazed, No underbrush is cleared, no clue exists Of any kind to guide your feet. A man Could scarce get through, how then shall you?

_Mrs. Secord_. I have a Guide in Heaven. This task is come To me without my seeking. If no word Reaches Fitzgibbon ere that murderous horde Be on him, how shall he save himself?

And if defeat he meets, then farewell all Our homes and hopes, our liberties and lives.

_Widow_. Oh, dear! oh, dear! and must you risk your life, Your precious life? Think of it, Laura, yet: Soldiers expect to fight; and keep strict watch Against surprise. Think of your little girls, Should they be left without a mother's care; Your duty is to them, and surely not In tasks like this. You go to risk your life.

As if you had a right, and thereby leave Those who to you owe theirs, unpitied, Desolate. You've suffered now enough With all you've lost, and James a cripple, too, What will the children do should they lose you Just when their youthful charms require your care?

They'll blame you, Laura, when they're old enough To judge what's right.

_Mrs. Secord_. I do not fear it.

Children can see the right at one quick glance, For, un.o.bscured by self or prejudice, They mark the aim, and not the sacrifice Entailed.

_Widow_. Did James consent to have you go?

_Mrs. Secord_. Not till he found there was no other way; He fretted much to think he could not go.

_Widow_. I'm sure he did. A man may undergo A forced fatigue, and take no lasting hurt, But not a woman. And you so frail-- It is your life you risk. I sent my lads, Expecting them to run the chance of war, And these you go to warn do but the same.

_Mrs. Secord_. You see it wrong; chances of war to those Would murder be to these, and on my soul, Because I knew their risk, and warned them not.

You'll think I'm right when tramp of armed men, And rumble of the guns disturb you in your sleep.

Then, in the calmer judgment night-time brings, You'd be the first to blame the selfish care That left a little band of thirty men A prey to near six hundred.

_Widow_. Just the old story! Six hundred--it's disgraceful!

Why, Were they tailors--nine to make a man-- 'Tis more than two to one. Oh, you must go.