Rolf In The Woods by Ernest Thompson Seton (phonics story books .txt) 📕

"Charge!" Shouted The British Officer And The Red-Coats Charged

To The Bridge,  But The Fire From The Embankment Was Incessant;

The Trail Of The Charging Men Was Cluttered With Those Who Fell.

"Forward!" And The Gallant British Captain Leaped On The Central

Stringer Of The Bridge And,  Waving His Sword,  Led On. Instantly

Three Lines Of Men Were Formed,  One On Each Stringer.

They Were Only Fifty Yards From The Barricade,  With Five Hundred

Rifles,  All Concentrated On These Stringers. The First To Fall

Was The Captain,  Shot Through The Heart,  And The River Bore Him

Away. But On And On Came The Three Ranks Into The Whistling,

Withering Fire Of Lead. It Was Like Slaughtering Sheep. Yet On

And On They Marched Steadily For Half An Hour. Not A Man Held

Back Or Turned,  Though All Knew They Were Marching To Their

Certain Death. Not One Of Them Ever Reached The Centre Of The

Span,  And Those Who Dropped,  Not Dead,  Were Swallowed By The

Swollen Stream. How Many Hundred Brave Men Were Sacrificed That

Day,  No One Ever Knew. He Who Gave The Word To Charge Was Dead

With His Second And Third In Command And Before Another Could

Come To Change The Order,  The River Ran Red -- The Bloody Saranac

They Call It Ever Since.

The Regiment Was Wrecked,  And The Assault For The Time Was Over.

Rolf Had Plied His Rifle With The Rest,  But It Sickened Him To

See The Horrible Waste Of Human Valour. It Was Such Ghastly Work

That He Was Glad Indeed When A Messenger Came To Say He Was

Needed At Headquarters. And In An Hour He Was Crossing The Lake

With News And Instructions For The Officer In Command At Burlington.

In Broad Daylight He Skimmed Away In His One Man Canoe.

For Five Hours He Paddled,  And At Star-Peep He Reached The Dock

At Burlington. The Howl Of A Lost Dog Caught His Ear; And When He

Traced The Sound,  There,  On The Outmost Plank,  With His Nose To

The Skies,  Was The Familiar Form Of Skookum,  Wailing And Sadly

Alone.

What A Change He Showed When Rolf Landed; He Barked,  Leaped,

Growled,  Tail-Wagged,  Head-Wagged,  Feet-Wagged,  Body-Wagged,

Wig-Wagged And Zigzagged For Joy; He Raced In Circles,  Looking

For A Sacrificial Hen,  And Finally Uttered A Long And

Conversational Whine That Doubtless Was Full Of Information For

Those Who Could Get It Out.

Rolf Delivered His Budget At Once. It Was Good News,  But Not

Conclusive. Everything Depended Now On Macdonough. In The Morning

All Available Troops Should Hurry To The Defence Of Plattsburg;

Not Less Than Fifteen Hundred Men Were Ready To Embark At Daylight.

That Night Rolf Slept With Skookum In The Barracks. At Daybreak,

Much To The Latter's Disgust,  He Was Locked Up In A Cellar,  And

The Troops Embarked For The Front.

It Was A Brisk North Wind They Had To Face In Crossing And

Passing Down The Lake. There Were Many Sturdy Oarsmen At The

Sweeps,  But They Could Not Hope To Reach Their Goal In Less Than

Five Hours.

When They Were Half Way Over,  They Heard The Cannon Roar; The

Booming Became Incessant; Without Question,  A Great Naval Battle

Was On,  For This North Wind Was What The British Had Been

Awaiting.  The Rowers Bent To Their Task And Added To The Speed.

Their Brothers Were Hard Pressed; They Knew It,  They Must Make

Haste. The Long Boats Flew. In An Hour They Could See The Masts,

The Sails,  The Smoke Of The Battle,  But Nothing Gather Of The

Portentous Result. Albany And New York,  As Well As Plattsburg,

Were In The Balance,  And The Oarsmen Rowed And Rowed And Rowed.

The Cannon Roared Louder And Louder,  Though Less Continuously,  As

Another Hour Passed. Now They Could See The Vessels Only Four

Miles Away. The Jets Of Smoke Were Intermittent From The Guns;

Masts Went Down. They Could See It Plainly. The Rowers Only Set

Their Lips And Rowed And Rowed And Rowed.

Sir George Had Reckoned On But One Obstacle In His March To

Albany,  An Obstruction Named Macdonough; But He Now Found There

Was Another Called Macomb.

It Was Obviously A Waste Of Men To Take Plattsburg By Front

Assault,  When He Could Easily Force A Passage Of The River Higher

Up And Take It On The Rear; And It Was Equally Clear That When

His Fleet Arrived And Crushed The American Fleet,  It Would Be A

Simple Matter For The War Vessels To Blow The Town To Pieces,

Without Risking A Man.

Already A Favouring Wind Had Made It Possible For Downie To Leave

Isle Au Noix And Sail Down The Lake With His Gallant Crew,  Under

Gallant Canvas Clouds.

Tried Men And True In Control Of Every Ship,  Out- Numbering

Macdonough,  Outweighing Him,  Outpointing Him In Everything But

Seamanship,  They Came On,  Sure Of Success.

Three Chief Moves Were In Macdonough's Strategy. He Anchored To

The Northward Of The Bay,  So That Any Fleet Coming Down The Lake

Would Have To Beat Up Against The Wind To Reach Him; So Close To

Land That Any Fleet Trying To Flank Him Would Come Within Range

Of The Forts; And Left Only One Apparent Gap That A Foe Might Try

To Use,  A Gap In Front Of Which Was A Dangerous Sunken Reef. This

Was Indeed A Baited Trap. Finally He Put Out Cables,  Kedges,

Anchors,  And Springs,  So That With The Capstan He Could Turn His

Vessels And Bring Either Side To Bear On The Foe.

All Was Ready,  That Morning Of September The 11th As The British

Fleet,  Ably Handled,  Swung Around The Cumberland Head.

The Young Commander Of The Yankee Fleet Now Kneeled Bareheaded

With His Crew And Prayed To The God Of Battles As Only Those

Going Into Battle Pray. The Gallant Foe Came On,  And Who That

Knows Him Doubts That He,  Too,  Raised His Heart In Reverent

Prayer? The First Broadside From The British Broke Open A Chicken

Coop On The Saratoga From Which A Game-Cock Flew,  And,  Perching

On A Gun,  Flapped His Wings And Crowed; So All The Seamen Cheered

At Such A Happy Omen.

Then Followed The Fighting,  With Its Bravery And Its Horrors --

Its Brutish Wickedness Broke Loose.

Early In The Action,  The British Sloop,  Finch,  Fell Into

Macdonough's Trap And Grounded On The Reef.

The British Commander Was Killed,  With Many Of His Officers.

Still,  The Heavy Fire Of The Guns Would Have Given Them The

Victory,  But For Macdonough's Foresight In Providing For Swinging

His Ships. When One Broadside Was Entirely Out Of Action,  He Used

His Cables,  Kedges And Springs,  And Brought The Other Batteries

To Bear.

It Was One Of The Most Desperate Naval Fights The World Has Ever

Seen. Of The Three Hundred Men On The British Flag- Ship Not More

Than Five,  We Are Told,  Escaped Uninjured; And At The Close There

Was Not Left On Any One Of The Eight Vessels A Mast That Could

Carry Sail,  Or A Sail That Could Render Service. In Less Than Two

Hours And A Half The Fight Was Won,  And The British Fleet

Destroyed.

To The God Of Battles Each Had Committed His Cause: And The God

Of Battles Had Spoken.

Far Away To The Southward In The Boats Were The Vermont Troops

With Their General And Rolf In The Foremost. Every Sign Of The

Fight They Had Watched As Men Whose Country's Fate Is Being Tried.

It Was A Quarter After Eleven When The Thunder Died Away; And The

Vermonters Were Headed On Shore,  For A Hasty Landing,  If Need Be,

When Down From The Peak Of The British Flag-Ship Went The Union

Jack,  And The Stars And Stripes Was Hauled To Take Its Place.

"Thank God!" A Soft,  Murmuring Sigh Ran Through All The Boats And

Many A Bronzed And Bearded Cheek Was Wet With Tears. Each Man

Clasped Hands With His Neighbour; All Were Deeply Moved,  And Even

As An Audience Melted Renders No Applause,  So None Felt Any Wish

To Vent His Deep Emotion In A Cheer.

General Macomb Knew That Sir George Prevost Was A Cautious And

Experienced Commander. The Loss Of His Fleet Would Certainly Make

A Radical Change In His Plans,  But What Change? Would He Make A

Flank Move And Dash On To Albany,  Or Retreat To Canada,  Or

Entrench Himself To Await Reinforcements At Plattsburg,  Or Try To

Retrieve His Laurels By An Overwhelming Assault On The Town?

Whatever His Plan,  He Would Set About It Quickly,  And Macomb

Studied The Enemy's Camp With A Keen,  Discerning Eye,  But Nothing

Suggesting A Change Was Visible When The Sun Sank In The Rainy West.

It Was Vital That He Know It At Once When An Important Move Was

Begun,  And As Soon As The Night Came Down,  A Score Of The

Swiftest Scouts Were Called For. All Were Young Men; Most Of Them

Had Been In Mcglassin's Band. Rolf Was Conspicuous Among Them For

His Tall Figure,  But There Was A Vermont Boy Named Seymour,  Who

Had The Reputation Of Being The Swiftest Runner Of Them All.

They Had Two Duties Laid Before Them: First,  To Find Whether

Prevost's Army Was Really Retreating; Second,  What Of The

Regiment He Sent Up The Saranac To Perform The Flank Movement.

Each Was Given The Country He Knew Best. Some Went Westerly,  Some

Followed Up The River. Rolf,  Seymour,  And Fiske,  Another

Vermonter,  Skimmed Out Of Plattsburg Harbour In The Dusk,  Rounded

Cumberland Bend,  And At Nine O'clock Landed At Point Au Roche,  At

The North Side Of Treadwell's Bay.

Here They Hid The Canoe And Agreeing To Meet Again At Midnight,

Set Off In Three Different Westerly Directions To Strike The

Highway At Different Points. Seymour,  As The Fast Racer,  Was

Given The Northmost Route; Rolf Took The Middle. Their Signals

Were Arranged -- In The Woods The Barred-Owl Cry,  By The Water

The Loon; And They Parted.

The Woods Seemed Very Solemn To Rolf That Historic September

Night,  As He Strode Along At Speed,  Stopping Now And Again When

He Thought He Heard Some Signal,  And Opened Wide His Mouth To

Relieve His Ear-Drums Of The Heart-Beat Or To Still The Rushing

Of His Breath.

In Half An Hour He Reached The High-Road. It Was Deserted. Then

He Heard A Cry Of The Barred Owl:

Wa -- Wah -- Wa -- Wah Wa - Wah -- Wa -- Hooooo-Aw.

He Replied With The Last Line,  And The Answer Came A Repeat Of

The Whole Chant,  Showing That It Might Be Owl,  It Might Be Man;

But It Was Not The Right Man,  For The Final Response Should Have

Been The Hooooo-Aw. Rolf Never Knew Whence It Came,  But Gave No

Further Heed.

For A Long Time He Sat In A Dark Corner,  Where He Could Watch The

Road. There Were Sounds Of Stir In The Direction Of Plattsburg.

Then Later,  And Much Nearer,  A Couple Of Shots Were Fired. He

Learned Afterward That Those Shots Were Meant For One Of His

Friends. At Length There Was A Faint Tump Ta Tump Ta. He Drew His

Knife,  Stuck It Deep In The Ground,  Then Held The Handle In His

Teeth. This Acted Like A Magnifier,  For Now He Heard It Plainly

Enough -- The Sound Of A Horse At Full Gallop -- But So Far Away

That It Was Five Minutes Before He