Chapter II: Act I: SCENE 1.--Queenston. A farmhouse

John Penn, a Quaker, _is seated on a chair tilted against the wall_. Mr. Secord, _his arm in a sling, reclines on a couch, against the end of which a crutch is is placed_. Mrs. Secord, _occupies a rocking-chair near the lounge_. Charlie, _a little fellow of four, is seated on her lap holding a ball of yarn from which she is knitting_. Charlotte, _a girl of twelve, is seated on a stool set a little in rear of the couch; she has a lesson-book in her hand_. Harriet, _a girl of ten, occupies a stool near her sister, and has a slate on her lap. All are listening intently to the_ Quaker, _who is speaking_.

_Quaker_. The midnight sky, set thick with shining points, Hung watchingly, while from a band of gloom That belted in the gloomier woods, stole forth Foreshortened forms of grosser shade, all barred With lines of denser blackness, dexter-borne. Rank after rank, they came, out of the dark, So silently no pebble crunched beneath Their feet more sharp than did a woodchuck stir. And so came on the foe all stealthily, And found their guns a-limber, fires ablaze, And men in calm repose. With bay'nets fixed The section in advance fell on the camp, And killed the first two sentries, whose sharp cries Alarmed a third, who fired, and firing, fled. This roused the guard, but "Forward!" was the word, And on we rushed, slaying full many a man Who woke not in this world. The 'larum given, A-sudden rose such hubbub and confusion As is made by belching earthquake. Waked from sleep, Men stumbled over men, and angry cries Resounded. Surprised, yet blenching not, Muskets were seized and shots at random fired E'en as they fled. Yet rallied they when ours, At word from Harvey, fell into line, And stood, right 'mid the fires, to flint their locks-- An awful moment!-- As amid raging storms the warring heaven Falls sudden silent, and concentrates force To launch some scathing bolt upon the earth, So hung the foe, hid in portentous gloom, While in the lurid light ours halted. Quick, Red volcanic fire burst from their lines And mowed us where we stood! Full many a trembling hand that set a flint Fell lifeless ere it clicked: _yet silent all_-- Save groans of wounded--till our rods struck home; Then, flashing fire for fire, forward we rushed And scattered them like chaff before the wind. The King's Own turned their left; the Forty-ninth, At point of bay'net, pushed the charge, and took Their guns, they fighting valiantly, but wild, Having no rallying point, their leaders both Lying the while all snug at Jemmy Gap's. And so the men gave in at last, and fled, And Stony Creek was ours.

_Mr. Secord_. Brave Harvey! Gallantly planned and carried. The stroke is good, the consequences better. Cooped as he is in George, the foe will lack His forage, and perforce must--eat his stores; For Yeo holds the lake, and on the land His range is scarce beyond his guns. And more, He is the less by these of men to move On salient points, and long as we hold firm At Erie, Burlington, and Stony Creek, He's like the wretched bird, he "can't get out."

_Mrs. Secord_. You speak, friend Penn, as if you saw the fight,
Not like a simple bearer of the news.

_Quaker_. Why, so I did.

_Mrs. Secord_. You did! Pray tell us how it was; For ever have I heard that Quakers shunned The sight of blood.

_Quaker_. None more than I. Yet innate forces sometimes tell o'er use Against our will. But this was how it happed: Thou seest, Mistress Secord, I'd a load Of sound potatoes, that I thought to take To Vincent's camp, but on the way I met A British officer, who challenged me; saith he, "Friend, whither bound?" "Up to the Heights," say I, "To sell my wares." "Better," saith he, "Go to the Yankee camp; they'll pay a price Just double ours, for we are short of cash." "I'll risk the pay," say I, "for British troops; Nay, if we're poor, I can afford the load, And p'rhaps another, for my country's good." "And say'st thou so, my Quaker! Yet," saith he, "I hear you Quakers will not strike a blow To guard your country's rights, nor yet your own." "No, but we'll hold the stakes," cried I. He laughed. "Can't you do more, my friend?" quoth he, "I need A closer knowledge of the Yankee camp: How strong it is, and how it lies. A brush Is imminent, and one must win, you know Shall they?" His manner was so earnest that, before I knew, I cried, "Not if I know it, man!" With a bright smile he answered me, "There spoke A Briton." Then he directed me How I might sell my load, what I should mark, And when report to him my observations. So, after dusk, I met him once again, And told him all I knew. It pleased him much. Warmly he shook my hand. "I am," saith he, "Lieutenant-Colonel Harvey. Should it hap That I can ever serve you, let me know."

_Mrs. Secord_. And then you stayed to see the end of it?

_Quaker_. Mistress, I did. Somewhat against my creed, I freely own; for what should I, a Quaker, E'er have to do with soldiers, men of blood! I mean no slight to you, James.

_Mr. Secord_ (_laughing_). No, no! go on.

_Quaker_. Well, when I thought how tired poor Dobbin was, How late the hour, and that 'twould be a week Before I'd hear how Harvey sped that night, I thought I'd stay and see the matter out; The more, because I kind o' felt as if Whatever happed I'd had a hand in it.

_Mrs. Secord_. And pray where did you hide? for hide you must,
So near the Yankee lines.

_Quaker_. It wasn't hard to do; I knew the ground, Being a hired boy on that very farm, Now Jemmy Gap's. There was an elm, where once I used to sit and watch for chipmunks, that I clomb, And from its shade could see the Yankee camp, Its straggling line, its fires, its careless watch; And from the first I knew the fight was ours, If Harvey struck that night.

_Mr. Secord_. Ha! ha! friend John, thine is a soldier's brain
Beneath that Quaker hat.

_Quaker_ (_in some embarrassment, rising_).
No, no, I am a man of peace, and hate
The very name of war. I must be gone.
(_To Mrs. Secord_.) My woman longs to see thee, Mistress.
Good-bye to all.

_The Little Girls_ (_rising_). Good-bye, sir.

_Mrs. Secord_. Good-bye, John, 'Twould please me much to see my friend again, But war blots out the sweet amenities Of life. Give her my love.

_Quaker_. I will.

_Mr. Secord_ (_rising and taking his crutch_). I'll walk a piece with you, friend Penn, And see you past the lines.

[_His little daughter_, HARRIET, _hands him his hat_.

_Quaker_. That's right, 'twill do thee good: Thy wounds have left thee like an ailing girl, So poor and pale.

[_Exeunt_ Quaker _and_ MR. SECORD.

_Charlotte_. Oh, dear, I wish I were a man, to fight
In such brave times as these!

_Enter_ MARY, _a girl of fourteen_.

_Mary_. Were wishing aught Soon should another sword strike for the King, And those dear rights now rudely overlooked.

_Mrs. Secord_. My child?

_Mary_. Oh naught, mamma, save the old tale: no nook That's not invaded, even one's books Borrowed without one's leave. I hate it all!

_Mrs. Secord_. We must be patient, dear, it cannot last.

_Harriet_. Oh, if we girls were boys, or Charles a man!

_Mrs. Secord_. Poor baby Charles! See, he's asleep; and now, Dear girls, seeing we cannot fight, we'll pray That peace may come again, for strife and blood, Though wisely spent, are taxes hard to pay. But come, 'tis late! See Charlie's dropt asleep; Sing first your evening hymn, and then to bed. I'll lay the darling down.

_Exit_ MRS. SECORD, _with the child in her arms_.

_Charlotte_. You start it, Mary.

_Children sing_--

HYMN.

Softly as falls the evening shade,
On our bowed heads Thy hands be laid;
Surely as fades the parting light,
Our sleep be safe and sweet to-night
Calmly, securely, may we rest,
As on a tender father's breast.

Let War's black pinions soar away,
And dove-like Peace resume her sway,
Our King, our country, be Thy care,
Nor ever fail of childhood's prayer.
Calmly, securely, may we rest
As on a tender father's breast.

[_Exeunt_.

* * * * *

SCENE 2.--_The same place and the same hour_.

_Enter_ MRS. SECORD.

After a weary day the evening falls With gentle benison of peace and rest. The deep'ning dusk draws, like a curtain, round, And gives the soul a twilight of its own; A soft, sweet time, full of refreshing dews, And subtle essences of memory And reflection. O gentle peace, when--

_Enter_ PETE, _putting his head in at the door_.

_Pete_. O, mistis! Heh, mistis!

_Mrs. Secord_. What now, Pete?

_Pete_. Oh, mistis, dat yar sergeant ossifer-- Dat sassy un what call me "Woolly-bear." An' kick my shin, he holler 'crass to me:-- "You, Pete, jes' you go in, an' tell Ma'am Secord I'se comin' in ter supper wiv some frens." He did jes' so--a sassy scamp.

_Mrs. Secord_. To-night? At this hour?

_Pete_. Yes, mistis; jes', jes' now. I done tell Flos Ter put her bes' leg fus', fer I mus' go An' ten' dat poo', sick hoss.

_Mrs. Secord_. Nay, you'll do nothing of the kind! You'll stay And wait upon these men. I'll not have Flos Left single-handed by your cowardice.

_Pete_. I aint a coward-ef I hed a club;
Dat poo', sick hoss--

_Mrs. Secord_. Nonsense! Go call me Flos, and see you play
no tricks to-night.

_Pete_. No, mistis, no; no tricks. [_Aside_. Ef I'd a club!]
_He calls from the door_: Flos! Flos! Ma'am Secord wants ye.

_Mrs. Secord (spreading a cloth upon the table)_. God help us if
these men much longer live
Upon our failing stores.

_Enter_ FLOS.

What have you got to feed these fellows, Flos?

_Flos_. De mistis knows it aint much, pas' noo bread, An' two--three pies. I've sot some bacon sisslin', An' put some taties on when Pete done tole me.

_Pete_. Give 'em de cider, mistis, an' some beer, And let 'em drink 'em drunk till mas'r come An' tell me kick 'em out.

_Flos_. You!--jes' hol' yer sassy tongue.

[_Footsteps are heard without_.

_Pete_. Dat's um. Dey's comin'. Dat poo', sick hoss--

[_He makes for the door_.

_Mrs. Secord_. You, Pete, come back and lay this cloth,
And wait at table properly with Flos.

_Enter a_ Sergeant, _a_ Corporal _and four_ Privates.

_Sergeant (striking Pete on the head with his cane)_. That's for
your ugly phiz and impudence.

[_Exit Pete, howling_.

(_To Mrs. Secord_.) Your slaves are saucy, Mistress Secord.

_Mrs. Secord_. Well, sir!

_Sergeant_. None of my business, eh? Well, 'tis sometimes,
You see. You got my message: what's to eat?

_Mrs. Secord_. My children's food, sir. This nor post-house is,
Nor inn, to take your orders.

[FLOS _and_ PETE _enter, carrying dishes_.

_Sergeant_. O, bless you, we don't order; we command.
Here, men, sit down.

[_He seats himself at the head of the table, and the others
take their places, some of them greeting_ MRS. SECORD
_with a salute of respect_.

Boy, fill those jugs. You girl, Set that dish down by me, and haste with more. Bacon's poor stuff when lamb and mint's in season. Why don't you kill that lamb, Ma'am Secord?

_Mrs. Secord_. 'Tis a child's pet.

_Sergeant_. O, pets be hanged!

[_Exit_ MRS. SECORD.

_Corporal_. Poor thing! I'm sure none of us want the lamb.

_A Private_. We'll have it, though, and more, if Boerstler--

_Corporal_. Hold your tongue, you--

_Second Private_ (_drinking_). Here's good luck, my boys,
to that surprise--

_Corporal (aside)_. Fool!

_Sergeant (drinking)_. Here's to to-morrow and a cloudy night.
Fill all your glasses, boys.

* * * * *

SCENE 3.--_Mrs. Secord's bedroom. She is walking up and down in much agitation_.

_Enter_ MR. SECORD.

_Mrs. Secord_ (_springing to meet him_). Oh, James, where have you been?

_Mr. Secord_. I did but ramble through the pasture, dear, And round the orchard. 'Twas so sweet and still. Save for the echo of the sentry's tread O'er the hard road, it might have been old times. But--but--you're agitated, dear; what's wrong? I see our unasked visitors were here. Was that--?

_Mrs. Secord_. Not that; yet that. Oh, James, I scarce can bear The stormy swell that surges o'er my heart, Awaked by what they have revealed this night.

_Mr. Secord_. Dear wife, what is't?

_Mrs. Secord_. Oh, sit you down and rest, for you will need
All strength you may command to hear me tell.

[_Mr. Secord sits down, his wife by him_.

That saucy fellow, Winter, and a guard Came and demanded supper; and, of course, They had to get it. Pete and Flos I left To wait on them, but soon they sent them off, Their jugs supplied,--and fell a-talking, loud, As in defiance, of some private plan To make the British wince. Word followed word, Till I, who could not help but hear their gibes, Suspected mischief, and, listening, learned the whole. To-morrow night a large detachment leaves Fort George for Beaver Dam. Five hundred men, With some dragoons, artillery, and a train Of baggage-waggons, under Boerstler, go To fall upon Fitzgibbon by surprise, Capture the stores, and pay for Stony Creek.

_Mr. Secord_. My God! and here am I, a paroled cripple! Oh, Canada, my chosen country! Now-- Is't now, in this thy dearest strait, I fail? I, who for thee would pour my blood with joy-- Would give my life for thy prosperity-- Most I stand by, and see thy foes prevail Without one thrust?

[_In his agitation he rises_.

_Mrs. Secord_. Oh, calm thee, dear; thy strength is all to me.
Fitzgibbon shall be warned, or aid be sent.

_Mr. Secord_. But how, wife? how? Let this attempt succeed, As well it may, and vain last year's success; In vain fell Brock: in vain was Queenston fought: In vain we pour out blood and gold in streams: For Dearborn then may push his heavy force Along the lakes, with long odds in his favour. And I, unhappy wretch, in such a strait Am here, unfit for service. Thirty men Are all Fitzgibbon has to guard the stores And keep a road 'twixt Bisshopp and De Haren. Those stores, that road, would give the Yankee all.

_Mrs. Secord_. Why, be content now, dear. Had we not heard, This plot might have passed on to its dire end, Like the pale owl that noiseless cleaves the dark, And, on its dreaming prey, swoops with fell claw.

_Mr. Secord_. What better is it?

_Mrs. Secord_. This; that myself will go to Beaver Dam,
And warn Fitzgibbon: there is yet a day.

_Mr. Secord_. Thou! thou take a task at which a man might shrink?
No, no, dear wife! Not so.

_Mrs. Secord_. Ay, prithee, let me go; 'Tis not so far. And I can pass unharmed Where you would be made prisoner, or worse. They'll not hurt me--my sex is my protection.

_Mr. Secord_. Oh, not in times like these. Let them suspect A shadow wrong, and neither sex, nor tears, Nor tenderness would save thy fate.

_Mrs. Secord_. Fear not for me. I'll be for once so wise The sentries shall e'en put me on my way. Once past the lines, the dove is not more swift Nor sure to find her distant home than I To reach Fitzgibbon. Say I may go.

_Mr. Secord_ (_putting his arm 'round her tenderly_). How can I let thee go? Thy tender feet Would bleed ere half the way was done. Thy strength Would fail 'twixt the rough road and summer heat, And in some, gloomy depth, faint and alone, Thou would'st lie down to die. Or, chased and hurt By wolf or catamount, thy task undone, Thy precious life would then be thrown away. I cannot let thee go.

_Mrs. Secord_. Not thrown away! Nay, say not that, dear James. No life is thrown away that's spent in doing duty. But why raise up these phantoms of dismay? I did not so when, at our country's call, You leapt to answer. Said I one word To keep you back? and yet my risk was greater Then than now--a woman left with children On a frontier farm, where yelling savages, Urged on, or led, by renegades, might burn, And kill, and outrage with impunity Under the name of war. Yet I blenched not, But helped you clean your musket, clasped your belt, And sent you forth, with many a cheery word. Did I not so?

_Mr. Secord_. Thou didst indeed, dear wife, thou didst. But yet,-- I cannot let thee go, my darling. Did I not promise in our marriage vow, And to thy mother, to guard thee as myself.

_Mrs. Secord_. And so you will if now you let me go. For you would go yourself, without a word Of parley, were you able; leaving me The while in His good hands; not doubting once But I was willing. Leave me there now, James, And let me go; it is our country calls.

_Mr. Secord_. Ah, dearest wife, thou dost not realize All my deep promise, "guard thee as myself?" I meant to guard thee doubly, trebly more.

_Mrs. Secord_. There you were wrong. The law says "as thyself
Thou shalt regard thy neighbour."

_Mr. Secord_. My neighbour! Then is that all that thou art To me, thy husband? Shame! thou lovest me not. My neighbour!

_Mrs. Secord_. Why now, fond ingrate! What saith _the Book?_ "THE GOOD, with all thy soul and mind and strength; Thy neighbour as thyself." Thou must _not_ love Thyself, nor me, as thou _must_ love the Good. Therefore, I am thy neighbour; loved as thyself: And as thyself wouldst go to warn Fitzgibbon If thou wert able, so I, being able, Thou must let me go--thy other self. Pray let me go!

_Mr. Secord_ (_after a pause_). Thou shalt, dear wife, thou shalt. I'll say no more. Thy courage meets the occasion. Hope shall be My standard-bearer, and put to shame The cohorts black anxiety calls up. But how shall I explain to prying folks Thine absence?

_Mrs. Secord_. Say I am gone to see my brother, 'Tis known he's sick; and if I venture now 'Twill serve to make the plot seem still secure. I must start early.

_Mr. Secord_. Yet not too soon, lest ill surmise
Aroused by guilty conscience doubt thy aim.

_Mrs. Secord_. That's true. Yet at this time of year do travellers start Almost at dawn to avoid the midday heats. Tell not the children whither I am bound; Poor darlings! Soon enough anxiety Will fall upon them; 'tis the heritage Of all; high, low, rich, poor; he chiefly blest Who travels farthest ere he meets the foe. There's much to do to leave the household straight, I'll not retire to-night.

_Mr. Secord_. Oh, yes, dear wife, thou shalt not spend thy strength On household duties, for thou'lt need it all Ere thy long task be done. O, but I fear--

_Mrs. Secord_ (_quickly_). Fear nothing! Trust heaven and do your best, is wiser. Should I meet harm,'twill be in doing duty: Fail I shall not!

_Mr. Secord_. Retire, dear wife, and rest; I'll watch the hours
Beside thee.

_Mrs. Secord_. No need to watch me, James, I shall awake.

[_Aside_. And yet perhaps 'tis best. If he wake now he'll sleep to-morrow Perforce of nature; and banish thus Some hours of sad anxiety.]

_Mr. Secord_. I'd better watch.

_Mrs. Secord_. Well then, to please you! But call me on the turn Of night, lest I should lose an hour or two Of cooler travel.

* * * * *

SCENE 4--_Daybreak on the_ 23_rd June_, 1813.

_The porch of_ Mr. Secord's _farmhouse. A garden path, with a gate that opens on to the high road from Newark to Twelve-Mile Creek_.

_Enter_ JAMES SECORD _and his wife_.

_Mr. Secord_. Heaven speed thee, then, dear wife. I'll try to bear The dreadful pangs of helplessness and dread With calm demeanour, if a bursting heart.

_Mrs. Secord_. Then will you taste a woman's common lot In times of strait, while I essay man's role Of fierce activity. We will compare When I return. Now, fare-thee-well, my husband.

(_Fearful of being observed, they part without an embrace_. Mrs. Secord _walks down the garden slowly, and gathers a few clove pinks; a the gate she stops as though the latch were troublesome, raises the flowers to her lips, and makes a slight salute to her husband, who yet stands within the porch watching her. She then rapidly pursues her way, but soon encounters an American sentry, whom she essays to pass with a nod and a smile: the man prevents her by bringing his musket to the charge, and challenging_.)

_Mrs. Secord_. Why do you stop me?

_Sentry_. Where is your pass?
You know that none may take the road without one.

_Mrs. Secord_. But surely I may go to milk my cow,
Yonder she is.

[_A cow is seen in the clearing_.

She's wandered in the night. I'll drive her back again, poor thing. She likes new pasture best, as well she may.

_Sentry_. Keep you your kine at home, you've land enough.

_Mrs. Secord_. Why, that's our land, and those our barns and sheds.

_Sentry_. Well, pass!

[_He suddenly observes the flowers_.

But where's your milking pail? I guess the bunch of flowers is for the cow.

_Mrs. Secord_ (_gently_). You are too rough! The pinks weep
dewy tears
Upon my hand to chide you. There, take them;

[_She offers him the flowers_.

And let their fragrance teach you courtesy, At least to women. You can watch me.

_Sentry_. Madam, suspicion blunts politeness. Pass. I'll take your flowers, and thank you, too; 'Tis long since that I saw their fellows in The old folks' garden.

(Mrs. Secord _crosses the road, takes a rail out of the fence, which she replaces after having passed 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. Sh! 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 passionate 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_.