Smiling at Mary, Dayho said, 'Not much of a place for a lady like you, Ma'am, but it's the best we can do. There's a woodstack behind this row of cabins, from which you can collect logs for your fire, and any of the other ladies in the clearing will tell you where you can draw your rations. As you are from New York, I fear you will find social life here very dull. Colonel Jason takes the view that parties should be discouraged, as they distract his officers from their dooties.'
Turning to Roger, he went on, 'You suggested paying for your rations, Sir, but that is quite unnecessary. And we shall be happy to make you an honorary member of our Mess whenever you care to come to it. Now, if you will excuse me, I must get back, as we are exceptionally hard at it preparing for the new campaign.'
When he had left them Shorty went round to the woodstack, collected some logs and got a fire going in the brazier, while Ben Log went to fetch the covered wagon. They unloaded all their belongings, then Roger paid off the half-breed driver.
The Longhunters realised that now Roger and Mary had been installed in the camp they would no longer need their services so, after a drink of spruce all round, the good-byes were said. Roger offered them a bonus on the sum agreed, but smilingly they refused to take it, declaring that it had been a privilege and a pleasure to escort such a gay and uncomplaining little lady as Mary on a trek. Not to be outdone, she kissed them both on their bearded cheeks. Then, with their long, loping stride, these two of Nature's gentlemen went on their way.
After distributing their things about the cabin and arranging it as comfortably as possible, Roger and Mary went out to make acquaintance with their nearest neighbours. The men were on duty with their troops and there were only a few, furclad women about. They were all of a type that Americans describe as very 'ornary', and a little over-awed by Mary's ladylike appearance, which she could not disguise; but they were pleasant and helpful about telling of the life of the camp.
That evening Roger tactfully acted on Captain Dayho's invitation to make use of the Officers' Mess, and spent an hour or so drinking with several of the members to whom Dayho introduced him. As he had expected, only the few seniors were regulars, the others being Militia and mostly farmers or storekeepers from small up-country towns. Nearly all of them wished the war soon over, as their hearts were not in it, and Roger felt sorry for them because they obviously knew next to nothing about soldiering and could not hope to stand up against equal numbers of well-disciplined British troops.
When he got back to the cabin he found that Mary had succeeded in making a stew from some venison left them by the Longhunters, but it had proved a far from pleasant task, as the only means of cooking was the brazier and there was no chimney, only a hole in the roof to let out the smoke. The cabin was half-filled with it, and her eyes were smarting painfully.
She had also had an unnerving experience when going to the woodpile for more logs. Strange noises were coming from it, and she had feared they were from some wild animal. But she had been reassured by another woman coming up, who laughed at her, then told her it was only a chipmunk and quite harmless.
Anxious to get away as soon as possible from these comfortless conditions, they went out early the following morn-, ing, armed with Roger's theodolite and a book for making notes. On reaching the river they found, to their disappointment, that the bank there was a sheer cliff nearly a hundred feet deep, and that the river below was only partly frozen with, between the ice along both banks, a raging torrent caused by the melting snow.
Pretending to take observations now and then, they made their way upstream for several miles, only to find that, although dangerous-looking paths wound down the cliff here and there, at no place was it possible to cross the river. Next day they explored the territory in the opposite direction, but met with no better fortune. At one place there was a tangle of rocks where it would have been possible in summer to cross by scrambling from one to another, but now the rocks were half-submerged in clouds of white, foaming water cascading over them.
Their third day being a Sunday, convention prohibited them from appearing to do any work but, after attending service they went for a long walk. At dusk, tired and depressed, they were about to re-enter the camp when, just outside it, they came upon a group of men. In the centre was an Indian and standing round him were half a dozen soldiers. As Roger and Mary approached they saw that he was a youngish man and, by the scarlet feather that dangled from his scalp-lock, a brave. His furs had been taken from him, one of the soldiers had put a noose of rope over his head, while another threw the other end over the low branch of a big tree. Although the native was half-naked in the biting cold, and obviously about to be hanged, he stood erect and unmoving, his proud face showing no trace of fear.
Halting beside the group, Roger asked the sergeant in charge. 'Why are you about to hang this man?'
'Because 'e's a dirty spy, Sirre,' replied the N.G.O. 'We roped him in this mornin' an' we're wise to 'is tribe. 'E comes from over thar, across the river.'
Mary's heart was wrung with pity for the impassive brave, and she exclaimed to Roger, 'Can we do nothing to save him?'
Not wishing to show pity in front of the American soldiers for one of their enemies, she had spoken in French. Immediately the Indian was galvanised into speech. In the French patois that was the lingua franca of the Indians in Canada, his dark eyes flashing, he cried:
'I beg your help! I am a Christian. The rich furs you wear and those of he who is with you tell me that he is a great Chief. Beautiful lady, I implore you. I implore you do not stand by and let them take my life.'
Roger well knew that hanging was the normal penalty for any spy who was caught, but he also felt a natural pity for this brave man. Suddenly, he had had an inspiration, and said to the sergeant:
'As I am not one of your officers, I cannot give you an order; but I can give you a very good reason why you should not yet hang this fellow. He tells me he is a Christian. As you probably know, nearly all Indian Christians in Canada have been converted by the Fathers. He is therefore a Roman Catholic. As such he naturally wishes to make confession before he dies, and receive absolution for his sins. It is only reasonable that he should be kept prisoner for a few days until one of the priests from St. Regis can be brought up here to perform the last rites for him.'
There ensued an argument between Roger and the sergeant, but one of the soldiers happened to be a Catholic, and broke in strongly to support Roger's contention; so it was decided that the prisoner should be taken to the fort and brought before the Commandant for his decision.
After a wait of half an hour the grey-haired Colonel Jason received them and listened to what Roger had to say. As the Colonel could speak no French and wished to interrogate the Indian, Roger acted as interpreter. It transpired that the man was a Cree Indian named Leaping Squirrel. He was twenty-four years old and son of a Sagamore who ruled over many lesser Chiefs. At the age of fourteen his father had sent him to the Jesuit mission at Caughnawaga, near Montreal. There he had been baptised and remained for two years, learning to read and write in French, and about the life of Jesus Christ. To prove his assertion he recited the Lord's Prayer and some passages from the Gospels.