“Go you, Duncan,” he said; “go with
this marquess, as, indeed, marquess he should be;
go to his marquee and arrange it all. I have lived
to see two things in my old age that never did I expect
to behold. An Englishman afraid to support a
friend, and a Frenchman too honest to profit by his
advantage.”
So saying, the veteran again dropped his head to his
chest, and returned slowly toward the fort, exhibiting,
by the dejection of his air, to the anxious garrison,
a harbinger of evil tidings.
From the shock of this unexpected blow the haughty
feelings of Munro never recovered; but from that moment
there commenced a change in his determined character,
which accompanied him to a speedy grave. Duncan
remained to settle the terms of the capitulation.
He was seen to re-enter the works during the first
watches of the night, and immediately after a private
conference with the commandant, to leave them again.
It was then openly announced that hostilities must
cease—Munro having signed a treaty by which
the place was to be yielded to the enemy, with the
morning; the garrison to retain their arms, the colors
and their baggage, and, consequently, according to
military opinion, their honor.
“Weave we the
woof.
The thread is spun.
The web is wove.
The work is done.”—Gray
The hostile armies, which lay in the wilds of the
Horican, passed the night of the ninth of August,
1757, much in the manner they would, had they encountered
on the fairest field of Europe. While the conquered
were still, sullen, and dejected, the victors triumphed.
But there are limits alike to grief and joy; and long
before the watches of the morning came the stillness
of those boundless woods was only broken by a gay
call from some exulting young Frenchman of the advanced
pickets, or a menacing challenge from the fort, which
sternly forbade the approach of any hostile footsteps
before the stipulated moment. Even these occasional
threatening sounds ceased to be heard in that dull
hour which precedes the day, at which period a listener
might have sought in vain any evidence of the presence
of those armed powers that then slumbered on the shores
of the “holy lake.”
It was during these moments of deep silence that the
canvas which concealed the entrance to a spacious
marquee in the French encampment was shoved aside,
and a man issued from beneath the drapery into the
open air. He was enveloped in a cloak that might
have been intended as a protection from the chilling
damps of the woods, but which served equally well
as a mantle to conceal his person. He was permitted
to pass the grenadier, who watched over the slumbers
of the French commander, without interruption, the
man making the usual salute which betokens military
deference, as the other passed swiftly through the
little city of tents, in the direction of William
Henry. Whenever this unknown individual encountered
one of the numberless sentinels who crossed his path,
his answer was prompt, and, as it appeared, satisfactory;
for he was uniformly allowed to proceed without further
interrogation.
