Classic Poem

ACT III

SCENE 1. — Decau's house, a stone edifice of some
pretensions. The parlour, with folding doors which
now stand a little apart. A sentry is visible, on the
other side of them. The parlour windows are
barricaded within, but are set open, and a branch of
a climbing rose with flowers upon it, swings in. The
sun is setting, and gilds the arms that are piled in
one corner of the room. A sword in its scabbard lies
across the table, near which, in an arm-chair,
reclines Lieutenant Fitzgibbon, a tall man of fine
presence; in his right hand, which rests negligently
on the back of the chair, he holds a newspaper of
four pages, " The Times, " from which he has been
reading. Several elderly weather-beaten non-
commissioned officers and privates, belonging to
the 49th, 104th, and 8th regiments, together with a
few militiamen and two cadets share the society of
their superior officer, and all are very much at their
ease both in appointments and manner, belts and
stocks are unloosed, and some of the men are
smoking .

Lieut. Fitzgibbon . 'Tis true, it seems, and yet most horrible;
More than five hundred thousand fighting men
Crossed with him o'er the front, and not a tenth
Remains. Rather than let him find a place
For winter quarters, two hundred thousand
Happy families had to forsake their homes
In dead of winter, and of the ancient seat
Of Russian splendour, Rotopschin made a pyre,
A blazing pyre of all its precious things:
Moscow is burned.

First Sergeant . So Boney could but toast his freezing toes
And march back home again: Fine glory that!

Fitzgibbon . Sad waste of precious lives for one man's will.

But this mishap will seal his fate. The Czar
Will see his interest is a strong alliance,
And all the Powers will prove too great a match,
Even for Buonaparte.

Second Sergeant . Where is he now, Lieutenant?

Fitzgibbon . In Paris, plotting again, I see; or was
Nine weeks ago.

First Private . Yon news coom quick.
Now when I were a bairn, that's forty year sin',
We heard i' York 'at Merriky refused
To pay the taxes, just three munth's arter;
An' that wur bonnie toime, fur then t'coaäch
Tuk but foive daäies ti mak' t' hull waai' doon,
Two hunner moile, fra Lunnon.

Fitzgibbon (still scanning the newspaper).
Well, Jimmy, here's a man, one Bell,
Of Greenock, can send a boat by steam
Against the wind and tide, and talks with hope
Of making speed equal to both.
He's tried it on the Clyde, so we may look
For news from England in a month, ere long.

First Private . Na, na, sir; noo doant 'e pooak fun at me!
Iver he doos ma' I go hang. Why neist
They scatterbrain 'ull mayhap send a shep
Jest whear tha' loike wi'oot a win' at all.
Or promise till 't. 'Twere pity Nelson, noo,
He'd noan o' sech at Copenhaagen
Mebbe tha' cu'd ha' gott tha' grunded sheps
Afloat, an gett moor men to fe'ht them Daans.

Fitzgibbon . The fewer men the greater glory, Jim.
Why, man, he got his title by that fight.

Second Sergeant . And well deserved it! A finer man
Never trod deck, sailor or officer;
His voice gave courage, as his eye flashed fire.
We would have died for him, and he for us;
And when the fight was done he got our rights,
Or tried at it. More than old Parker did.

First Sergeant . Parker was rich, and so forgot the poor,
But Nelson forgot none.

Second Private . He was cliver, too. Dash't! how I laughed,
All i' my sleeve o' course. The fight was hot,
And getting hotter, for, gad, them Danes can fight!
And quite a quarter o' the ships was stuck,
The Admiral's among 'em. So Nelson held
The squadron at command. Up comes the word,

" The signal Thirty-nine is out, sir. " Nelson turns,
His stump a-goin' as his arm was used
Afore he lost it, meets the officer, as says,
" Sir, Thirty-nine is out, shall I repeat it? "
" No, sir; acknowledge it. " Then on he goes.
Presently he calls out, " What's flying now? "
" The same, sir. " So he takes his glass
And puts it to his eye, his blind eye, mind you,
An' says he, " No signal can I see. No,
Ne'er a one. " Winking to Ferguson, says he,
" I've but one eye, and may be blind sometimes.
What! strike off now and lose the day? Not so:
My signal keep for " Closer battle," flying.
That's how I'll answer. Confound the signal!
Nail mine to the mast. " He won.

First Militiaman . Just touch and go for hanging, that.

Fitzgibbon . Success ne'er saw a scaffold, Jeremy

A Cadet . Fine-looking fellow Nelson-was, I guess?

First Sergeant . To look at? No, a little, thin, pale man
With a long queue, one arm, and but one eye,
But that a blazer!

Second Militiaman . These little uns has lots o' spunk:
Boney's a little un, I've heerd.

First Private . Just so: and Wellington ain't big.

Fitzgibbon (rising and drawing himself to his full height) .
Come, boys, you're getting personal. See me!
If none but little men may win renown,
I hope I'm two in one, for your sakes.
And you forget the lion-hearted Brock.

All (interrupting him) . No! no! no!

Fitzgibbon . A man of height exceeding any here,
And yet whose alt of metred inches
Nobly enlarged to full, fair, Saxon mould,
And vested in the blazonments of rule,
Shewed not so kingly to the obeisant sight
As was his soul. Who than ye better knew
His bravery; his lofty heroism;
His purity, and great unselfish heart?
Nature in him betrayed no niggard touch
Of corporate or ethereal. Yet I yield
That men of lesser mould in outward form
Have been as great in deeds of rich renown.
But then, I take it, greatness lies not in
The flesh, but in the spirit. He is great
Who from the quick occasion of the time

Strikes out a name. And he is also great
Who, in a life-long struggle, throws the foe,
And binds on hoary locks the laurel crown.
Each is a high exemplar.
One with concentrate vigour strikes a blow
That rings around the world; the other draws
The world round him — his mighty throes
And well-contested standpoints win its praise
And force its verdict, though bleak indifference —
A laggard umpire — long neglect his post,
And often leaves the wrestler's best unnoted,
Coming but just in time to mark his thews
And training, and so decides: while the loud shock
Of unexpected prowess starts him aghast,
And from his careless hand snatches the proud award.
But mark me, men, he who is ever great
Has greatness made his aim —
The sudden blow or long-protracted strife
Yields not its secret to the untrained hand.
True, one may cast his statue at a heat,
But yet the mould was there;
And he who chips the marble, bit by bit,
Into a noble form, sees all the while
His image in the block.
There are who make a phantom of their aim —
See it now here, now there, in this, in that,
But never in the line of simple duty;
Such will accomplish nothing but their shame:
For greatness never leaves that thin, straight mark;
And, just as the pursuit diverges from it,
Greatness evanishes, and notoriety
Misleads the suitor. I'd have you think of this.

All . Aye, aye, sir.

Fitzgibbon . Order the lights, for darkness falls apace,
And I must write.
Fitzgibbon (cutting the newspaper and handing the halves to the sergeants) . There, read to the rest, and let me have them back when done with.

Enter a Soldier with lights .

Who's that?

First Private . It's Roaring Bill, sir; shall I stop him?

Fitzgibbon . No; let him sing.
It cheers our loneliness, and does us good.

First Sergeant . Another of his own, I guess; homespun
And rough, like country cloth.

Fitzgibbon . Hush! what is that he says?

Roaring Bill . 'Tis but a doleful ditty, boys,
With ne'er a chorus; yet I'll be bound
You'll hardly quarrel with it.

A Comrade . Let's have it, Bill; we ain't red Injuns,
As likes palaver.

Roaring Bill —

SONG.

October blasts had strown the wreaths that erstwhile hung so gay,
Above the brows of Queenston Heights where we impatient lay;
Niagara fretted at our feet, as chafing at his post,
And impotence to turn the fleets that bore the aggressive host.

And gray the dawn and cold the morn of Rensselaer's attack,
But warm and true the hearts, though few, that leapt to beat him back.
" On, Forth-ninth! On, volunteers! Give tongue, ye batteries twain! "
Bold Dennis spake: the guns boomed forth, and down he rushed amain.

They sink! They fly! They drop down stream. — Ah, too delusive sight!
A long-abandoned path they find, and gain the wooded height.
The batteries now must guard the shore — above, our struggle lies;
But down they pour, like surging flood, that skill and strength defies.

Down, down, they press us, inch by inch, beyond the village bound,
And there, o'erwhelmed, but not o'ercome, we keep our sullen ground.
Short time we stand. A ringing cheer proclaims our hero nigh;
Our darling leader, noble Brock — hark to his gallant cry!

" Follow me, boys! " the hero cries. We double to the wall —
Waving his gleaming sword on high, he climbs, and follow all;
Impetuous up the mountain side he strides in warlike glee,
All heedless of the leaden hail that whistles from each tree:

For on and up proud Victory lures — we touch her laurel crown —
When by malign, deliberate aim the hero's stricken down.
He falls! We fire, but ah, too late — the murderous work is done.
No more that voice shall cheer us on, with " Victory! " in its tone.

He falls: nor word nor look may cheer young Jarvis' anxious quest;
Among his stricken men he sinks, his hand but seeks his breast.
O, Death, could none but him suffice thy cold, insatiate eye?
Nor Knewed' st thou how many there for him would gladly die!

Nor lonely speeds the parting soul, nor lonely stands the bier —
Two forms the bastion-tomb enfolds, two claim the soldier's tear.
" Avenge the General! " was the cry. " AVENGE! " McDonell cries,
And, leading madly up the Height, McDonell falls and dies.

An 8th man . A mournful ditty to a mournful tune,
Yet not unworthy of the heroic theme,
Nor of a soldier's heart.

Mr. Jarvis (in a low voice) . Indeed, you're right.
I thank the singer for his memories,
Though sad to me, who caught Brock's latest breath.

Fitzgibbon . I did not think there had been such a stroke
Of genius in the lad. ( Another voice ). But who's this, now?

Second Cadet . It's young Jack Kelley, sir; he has a voice,
And emulates old Bill.

Jack Kelley ( with the airs of an amateur .) Ugh! ugh! I'm hoarse.
Now mind the coal-box, byes, and sing it up.
" The Jolly Midshipman's " the tune.

SONG.

I.

It was a bold Canadian boy
That loved a winsome girl;
And he was bold as ancient knight,
She, fair as day's own pearl.
And to the greenwood they must go,
To build a home and name,
So he clasped hands with Industry,
For fortune, wealth and fame.

CHORUS

( In which all join, the leader beating time upon his knees with his fists .)

For fortune, wealth and fame,
For fortune, wealth and fame;
So he clasped hands with Industry,
For fortune, wealth and fame.

II.

And when the jocund Spring came in,
He crowned the wedded pair.
And sent them forth with hearts elate
Their wildwood home to share.
For he had built a snug log-house,
Beneath a maple tree;
And his axe had cleared a wide domain,
While store of goods spun she.

CHORUS.

While store of goods spun she,
While store of goods spun she,
And his axe had cleared a wide domain,
While store of goods spun she.

III.

The husband whistles at his plough,
The wife sings at her wheel,
The children wind the shrilly horn
That tells the ready meal.
And should you roam the wide world o'er,
No happier home you'll see,
Than this abode of loving toil
Beneath the maple tree.

CHORUS.

Beneath the maple tree,
Beneath the maple tree,
Than this abode of loving toil
Beneath the maple tree.

A 49th man . Hurrah, Jack! that's a good tune,
Let's have the chorus again.

All —
Beneath the maple tree,
Beneath the maple tree,
Than this abode of lov —

Fitzgibbon . Well, Corporal.

Corporal . Sir, here is Mishe-mo-qua and a woman.
They say they've news, and wish to speak with you.

Fitzgibbon . Then, Corporal, show them in.

Enter MRS. SECORD and the Indian Chief, who salutes LIEUT. FITZGIBBON.

Several Militiamen ( in surprise, aside to each other .) 'Tis Mrs. Secord, Captain Secord's wife;

What can her errand be? So tired, too,
And in rags.

Mrs. Secord ( courtesying ). You are the Captain, sir?

Fitzgibbon . At your service.

Mrs. Secord . I bring you news of great importance, sir.

Fitzgibbon . I am indebited, madam, for what I see
Has been no common task. Be seated, pray.

Chief, will you also rest?

Mishe-mo-qua . No. Woman, she
Come far, to tell white chief great words.

Fitzgibbon . I thank her much.

Mrs. Secord . I came to say that General Dearborn tires.
Of his inaction, and the narrow space
Around his works, he therefore purposes
To fall upon your outpost here, to-night,
With an o'erwhelming force, and take your stores:

Fitzgibbon . Madam!

Mrs. Secord . Five hundred men, with some dragoons and guns,
Start e'en to-night, soon as the moon goes down;
Lieutenant-Colonel Boerstler in command.
A train of waggons, too, is sent for spoil.

Fitzgibbon . And may I ask on what authority
To trust such startling news? I know you not.

Mrs. Secord . My name is Secord, I'm Captain Secord's wife,
Who fought at Queenston Heights, and there received
The wounds that leave him now a helpless cripple.
Some here may know him.

Fitzgibbon . I remember now.

Mrs. Secord . We live within the Yankee lines, and hence
By victor's right our home is free to them.
Last night a sergeant and his new-changed guard
Came in and asked for supper; a boy and girl
I left to wait on them, seeing the table set
With all supplies myself, and then retired.
But such their confidence; their talk so loud
And free, I could not help but hear some words
That raised suspicion; then I listened close
And heard, 'mid gibe and jest, the enterprise

That was to flout us; make the Loyalist
A cringing slave to sneering rebels; make
The British lion gnash his teeth with rage; —
The Yankee, hand-on-hip, guffawing loud
The while. At once, my British blood was up,
Nor had I borne their hated presence more,
But for the deeper cause. My husband judged
As I did, but his helpless frame forbade
His active interference, so I came,
For well we knew your risk, warning denied.

Fitzgibbon . Alone? You surely did not come alone?

Mrs. Secord . Sir, I have walked the whole way through the woods,
For fear of spies, braving all other foes.
Nor, since at early morn I left St. David's Mill,
Until I met your sentry on the ridge, —
Who begged me tell you so, and said " all's well, " —
Spoke I, or saw, a soul. Since then, the chief,
Whose senior sent him with me for a guide,
Has been my kind protector to your post.

Fitzgibbon ( to the chief ). I think you, Mishe-mo-qua, and your chief.

( To Mrs. Secord, bowing .) But you, oh; madam, how shall I thank you?
You have, indeed, performed a woman's part,
A gentle deed; yet at expense of more
Than woman's fitting means. I am not schooled
In courtly phrases, yet may I undertake
To thank you heartily, not on our part
Alone, but in our good King George's name,
For act so kind achieved. Knew he your care
For his brave men — I speak for those around —
Of whom some fought for him at Copenhagen,
He would convey his thanks, and the Queen's, too —
Who loves all nobleness — in better terms
Than I, his humble servant. Affliction
Leaves him in our hands to do him justice;
And justice 'tis, alike to him and you,
To thank you in his name, and in the Regent's.

The Soldiers . Hurray! hurray! hurray!

Mrs. Secord . Sir, you make quite too much of my poor service,
I have but done my duty; and I beg
Let me not interrupt your movements now:
I would not be an obstacle across
The path I made.

Fitzgibbon . You add an obligation, madam.

( To the men .) We've hot work coming, boys. Our good friend here
Has walked from Queenston, through the woods, this day,
To warn me that a sortie from Fort George
Is sent to take this post, and starts e'en now.
You, Cummings, mount — you know the way — and ride
With all your might, to tell De Haren this;
He lies at Twelve-Mile Creek with larger force
Than mine, and will move up to my support:
He'll see my handful cannot keep at bay
Five hundred men, or fight in open field.
But what strength can't accomplish cunning must —
I'll have to circumvent them.

( To Mishe-mo-qua .) And you, chief,
What will you do? You've stood by me so long,
So faithfully, I count upon you now.

Mishe-mo-qua . White chief say true: we good King George's men.
My warriors yell! hide! shoot! hot bullet fly
Like dart of Annee-meekee.
We keep dam Long-Knife back. I go just now.
Fitzgibbon (handing the chief a twist of tobacco, which he puts into his girdle with a grunt of satisfaction) . A Mohawk is my friend, and you are one.

( To Mrs. Secord .) Madam, how may I serve you to secure
Your safety? Refreshment comes; but here
Is no protection in our present strait.

Mrs. Secord . I thank you, sir, but will not tax you more
Than some refreshment. I have friends beyond
A mile or two, with whom I'll stay to-night.

Fitzgibbon . I'll spare an escort; Mr. Jarvis here will —

Poor soul! poor soul! she is exhaust indeed.

Fitzgibbon . She's coming to. Back, men; give her more air.

An 8th man ( aside ). She'll never walk to reach her friends to-night.

A 49th man (to a comrade) . Jack, thou an'me can do't. 'Tyent the fust time

We've swung a faintin" comrade 'twixt us two;
An' her's just like a babby. Fatch a pole
An' blanket, an' we'll carry her.

A Sergeant . You'll then be in the rear, for we're to move.

Second 49th man . We'll catch ye oop a foight'n; its summat wuth
To await o' sech as she.

Fitzgibbon ( to Mrs. Secord ). Are you better now?

Mrs. Secord ( trying to stand ). I think I am. Oh, sir, I'm losing you
The time I tried to save! Pray leave me —
I shall be better soon, and I can find my way.

Fitzgibbon . Nay, be not anxious; we are quite prepared.
Sheathed though our claws may be, they're always sharp.
Pray drink again, nor fear the potent touch
That snatches back the life when the spent heart,
Oppressed by cruel tasks, as yours, can scarcely beat.

49th man ( saluting ). Sir, me an' Bill has here a hammock ready,
An' volunteers to see the lady safe.
Among her friends.

Mrs. Secord . But I can walk.

Fitzgibbon . Madam, you cannot. Let these carry you;
An honour I do grudge them. I shall move
With better heart knowing you cared for.

Mrs. Secord . I'll go at once —

Fitzgibbon . Men, bring your hammock hither.

Mrs. Secord . Farewell, sir. My best thanks for all your goodness,
Your hospitality, and this, your escort;
You do me too much honour.

Fitzgibbon . Should we not
Show our respect for one has done so much
For us? We are your debtors, madam.

See how the eyes of heaven look down on you,
And smile, in gentle approbation
Of a most gentle deed. I pray they light
You safely to your friends.

Mrs. Secord . And you to victory, sir. Farewell.
Fitzgibbon ( to the men who have crowded round the door, and are awaiting orders ). Men, never forget this woman's noble deed.
Armed, and in company, inspirited
By crash of martial music, soldiers march
To duty; but she, alone, defenceless,
With no support but kind humanity
And burning patriotism, ran all our risks
Of hurt, and bloody death, to serve us men,
Strangers to her save by quick war-time ties.
Therefore, in grateful memory and kind return,
Ever treat women well.

Men . Aye, aye, sir.

Fitzgibbon . Now, then, for action. I need not say,
Men, do your duty. The hearts that sprung
To follow Nelson; Brock; have never failed.
I'm proud, my men, to be your leader now.