Classic Poem

ACT II.

SCENE 1. — 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. god knows how we shall feed
Next year: small crop, small grist, — a double loss
To me. the times are anxious.
( To Sergeant osier. ) 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 glass of milk, et petit chose comme ça.
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 noble hearts,
And calls the world its country, and its sex
Humanity.

Babette. Madame?

Widow. You do not understand me, not; but you
Were very brave and noble-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
Seaffe 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 balls,
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 knew in youth.

Widow. You're hasty, Sergeant, already hath this war
Sown 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,
Wary 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 noble deeds: a plague on him, I say,
Who follows with worse seed!

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 sex
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 Dyke-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 mass. But she,
Scarce half awake, ad 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 shells, and saw
The hellish 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 thy knew too soon,
Her husband being safe.
But when Burgoyne
At Saratoga lost the bloody 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 pass into the hostile camp,
There to beseech for leave to lend her husband.
Full pitifully Burgoyne granted her
The boon she asked, though loath to let her go;

For she had passed 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 —

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

( 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?

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 gland to meet you, sir.

Sergeant (bowling 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,

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, lass, I've pies to bake,
And then a brisket.

( 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 passed, 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 sort,
And through the virgin woods my way doth lie,
For should those sentries meet, or all report
I passed 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
e 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 no 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, unobscured 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, Where they tailors — nine to make a man —
'Tis more than two to one. Oh, you must go.

Mrs. Secord. I knew you'd say so when you came to think:
It was your love to me that masked your judgment.
I'll go and see poor Charles, but shall not say
My real errand, 'twould excite him so.

Widow. Poor Laura! Would to God I knew some way
To lighten her of such a task as this.

Sergeant. Is it too early for the invalid?
The lads are here, and full of ardour.

Widow. Oh, o, his sister's with him.

Mrs. Secord. What's that! What's that!

Widow. I should have warned you, dear,
But don't be scared, its Sergeant George's boys.
He's gathered quite a company of lads
From round about, with every match-lock, gun,
Or fowling-piece the lads could find, and drills
Them regularly every second morn.
He calls 'em " young St. David's Yeoman Guard, "
Their horses, " shankses naigie. " Look you here!

Yes, that's the way to meet your country's foes.
I you were Yankee lads you'd have to march to this
Quick — march.

Ho! Ho! That's how you march to " Yankee Doodle. "
'Tis a fine tune! A grand, inspiring tune,
Like " Polly put the Kettle on, " or
" Dumble-dum-deary. " Can soldiers march to that?
Can they have spirit, honour, or do great deeds
With such a tune as that to fill their ears?

Mrs. Secord. The Sergeant's bitter on the foe, I think.

Widow. He is, but can you wonder? Hounded out
When living peaceably upon his farm.
Shot at, and threatened till he takes a side,
And then obliged to fly to save his life,
Losing all else, his land, his happy home,
His loving wife, who sank beneath the change,
Because he chose the rather to endure
A short injustice, than belie his blood
By joining England's foes. He went with Moody.
Mrs. Secord. Poor fellow! Those were heavy times, like these.
Sergeant George. Now boys, the grand new tune, " Britannia Rules the Waves, " play con spirito , that means heart! mind! soul! as if you meant it.

Shut, shut it out, I cannot bear it, Ellen,
It shakes my heart's foundations! Let me go.

Widow. Nay, but you're soon upset. If you must go,
Your bonnet's on my bed. I'll get a bite

Of something for you on the road.

Here, eat a bit, and drink a sup of wine,
It's only currant; the General's got a keg
I sent, when stores were asked; James Coffin's good;
He always sends poor Ned, or Jack, or Dick —
When commissariat's low; a mother's heart,
A widowed mother, too, he knows, sore longs
To see her lads, e'en if she willing sends
Them all serve the King. I don't forget him
Morning and night, and many a time between.
No wine? Too soon? Well, take this drop along.
There's many a mile where no fresh water is,
And you'll be faint —

Good lan', I cannot bear to see you go.

Mrs. Secord. Nay, sister, na, be calm!
Send me away light-hearted,

I trust in God,
As you for your dear lads. Shew me the way
To gain the woods unseen by friend or foe,
The while these embryo soldiers are engaged.

Widow. I'll go with you a mile or two.

Mrs. Secord. No, no.
It might arouse suspicion.

Widow. Times indeed
When every little act has some to watch!

You see yon oak just by the little birch —

Mrs. Secord. I do.

Widow. There is a little path leads down
To a small creek, cross that, and keep the sun
Behind you half a mile, and then you strike
The bush, uncleared and wild. Good God, to think —

Mrs. Secord. Think not, but pray, and if a chance occurs
Send aid to poor Fitzgibbon. Little help
Just in the nick of time oft turns the scale
Of fortune. God bless you, dear! Good bye.