Rolf in the Woods

The sunset slowly ended; the night wind blew; the dragging hours brought gloom that entered in. This seemed indeed the direst strait of his lot. Crippled, dying of cold, helpless, nothing to do but wait and die, and from his groaning lips there came the half-forgotten prayer his mother taught him long ago, “O God, have mercy on me!” and then he forgot.

When he awoke, the stars were shining; he was numb with cold, but his mind was clear.

“This is war,” he thought, “and God knows we never sought it.” And again the thought: “When I offered to serve my country, I offered my life. I am willing to die, but this is not a way of my choosing,” and a blessed, forgetfulness came upon him again.

But his was a stubborn-fibred race; his spark of life was not so quickly quenched; its blazing torch might waver, wane, and wax again. In the chill, dark hour when the life-lamp flickers most, he wakened to hear the sweet, sweet music of a dog’s loud bark; in a minute he heard it nearer, and yet again at hand, and Skookum, erratic, unruly, faithful Skookum, was bounding around and barking madly at the calm, unblinking stars.

A human “halloo” rang not far away; then others, and Skookum barked and barked.

Now the bushes rustled near, a man came out, kneeled down, laid hand on the dying soldier’s brow, and his heart. He opened his eyes, the man bent over him and softly said, “Nibowaka! it’s Quonab.”

That night when the victorious rangers had returned to Plattsburg it was a town of glad, thankful hearts, and human love ran strong. The thrilling stories of the day were told, the crucial moment, the providential way in which at every hopeless pass, some easy, natural miracle took place to fight their battle and back their country’s cause. The harrying of the flying rear-guard, the ambuscade over the hill, the appearance of an American scout at the nick of time to warn them — the shooting, and his disappearance — all were discussed.

Then rollicking Seymour and silent Fiske told of their scouting on the trail of the beaten foe; and all asked, “Where is Kittering?” So talk was rife, and there was one who showed a knife he had picked up near the ambuscade with R. K. on the shaft.

Now a dark-faced scout rose up, stared at the knife, and quickly left the room. In three minutes he stood before General Macomb, his words were few, but from his heart:

“It is my boy, Nibowaka; it is Rolf; my heart tells me. Let me go. I feel him praying for me to come. Let me go, general. I must go.”

It takes a great man to gauge the heart of a man who seldom speaks. “You may go, but how can you find him tonight?”

“Ugh, I find him,” and the Indian pointed to a little, prick-eared, yellow cur that sneaked at his heels.

“Success to you; he was one of the best we had,” said the general, as the Indian left, then added: “Take a couple of men along, and, here, take this,” and he held out a flask.

Thus it was that the dawning saw Rolf on a stretcher carried by his three scouting partners, while Skookum trotted ahead, looking this way and that — they should surely not be ambushed this time.

And thus the crowning misfortune, the culminating apes of disaster — the loss of his knife — the thing of all others that roused in Rolf the spirit of rebellion, was the way of life, his dungeon’s key, the golden chain that haled him from the pit.

Chapter 85. The Hospital, the Prisoners, and Home

There were wagons and buckboards to be had, but the road was rough, so the three changed off as litter-bearers and brought him to the lake where the swift and smooth canoe was ready, and two hours later they carried him into the hospital at Plattsburg.

The leg was set at once, his wounds were dressed, he was warmed, cleaned, and fed; and when the morning sun shone in the room, it was a room of calm and peace.

The general came and sat beside him for a time, and the words he spoke were ample, joyful compensation for his wounds. MacDonough, too, passed through the ward, and the warm vibrations of his presence drove death from many a bed whose inmate’s force ebbed low, whose soul was walking on the brink, was near surrender.

Rolf did not fully realize it then, but long afterward it was clear that this was the meaning of the well-worn words, “He filled them with a new spirit.”

There was not a man in the town but believed the war was over; there was not a man in the town who doubted that his country’s cause was won.