Rolf in the Woods

There was another face that Rolf recognized — hollow-cheeked, flabby-jowled and purplish-gray. The man was one of the oldest of the prisoners. He wore a white beard end moustache. He did not recognize Rolf, but Rolf knew him, for this was Micky Kittering. How he escaped from jail and joined the enemy was an episode of the war’s first year. Rolf was shocked to see what a miserable wreck his uncle was. He could not do him any good. To identify him would have resulted in his being treated as a renegade, so on the plea that he was an old man, Rolf saw that the prisoner had extra accommodation and out of his own pocket kept him abundantly supplied with tobacco. Then in his heart he forgave him, and kept away. They never met again.

The bulk of the militia had been disbanded after the great battle. A few of the scouts and enough men to garrison the fort and guard the prisoners were retained. Each day there were joyful partings — the men with homes, going home. And the thought that ever waxed in Rolf came on in strength. He hobbled to headquarters. “General, can I get leave — to go — he hesitated — home?”

“Why, Kittering, I didn’t know you had a home. But, certainly, I’ll give you a month’s leave and pay to date.”

Champlain is the lake of the two winds; the north wind blows for six months with a few variations, and the south wind for the other six months with trifling.

Next morning a bark canoe was seen skimming southward before as much north wind as it could stand, with Rolf reclining in the middle, Quonab at the stern, and Skookum in the bow.

In two days they were at Ticonderoga. Here help was easily got at the portage and on the evening of the third day, Quonab put a rope on Skookum’s neck and they landed at Hendrik’s farm.

The hickory logs were blazing bright, and the evening pot was reeking as they opened the door and found the family gathered for the meal.

“I didn’t know you had a home,” the general had said. He should have been present now to see the wanderer’s welcome. If war breeds such a spirit in the land, it is as much a blessing as a curse. The air was full of it, and the Van Trumpers, when they saw their hero hobble in, were melted. Love, pity, pride, and tenderness were surging in storms through every heart that knew. “Their brother, their son come back, wounded, but proven and glorious.” Yes, Rolf had a home, and in that intoxicating realization he kissed them all, even Annette of the glowing cheeks and eyes; though in truth he paid for it, for it conjured up in her a shy aloofness that lasted many days.

Old Hendrik sputtered around. “Och, I am smile; dis is goood, yah. Vere is that tam dog? Yah! tie him not, he shall dis time von chicken have for joy.”

“Marta,” said Rolf, “you told me to come here if I got hurt. Well, I’ve come, and I’ve brought a boat-load of stuff in case I cannot do my share in the fields.”

“Press you, my poy you didn’t oughter brung dot stuff; you know we loff you here, and effery time it is you coom I get gladsomer, and dot Annette she just cried ven you vent to de war.”

“Oh, mother, I did not; it was you and little Hendrick!” and Annette turned her scarlet cheeks away.

October, with its trees of flame and gold, was on the hills; purple and orange, the oaks and the birches; blue blocked with white was the sky above, and the blue, bright lake was limpid.

“Oh, God of my fathers,” Quonab used to pray, “when I reach the Happy Hunting, let it be ever the Leaf-falling Moon, for that is the only perfect time.” And in that unmarred month of sunny sky and woodlands purged of every plague, there is but one menace in the vales. For who can bring the glowing coal to the dry-leafed woods without these two begetting the dread red fury that devastates the hills?

Who can bring the fire in touch with tow and wonder at the blaze? Who, indeed? And would any but a dreamer expect young manhood in its growing strength, and girlhood just across the blush-line, to meet in daily meals and talk and still keep up the brother and sister play? It needs only a Virginia on the sea-girt island to turn the comrade into Paul.

“Marta, I tink dot Rolf an Annette don’t quarrel bad, ain’t it?”

“Hendrik, you vas von blind old bat-mole,” said Marta, “I fink dat farm next ours purty good, but Rolf he say ’No Lake George no good.’ Better he like all his folk move over on dat Hudson.”

Chapter 86. The New Era of Prosperity

As November neared and his leave of absence ended, Rolf was himself again; had been, indeed, for two weeks, and, swinging fork or axe, he had helped with many an urgent job on the farm.

A fine log stable they had rolled up together, with corners dovetailed like cabinet work, and roof of birch bark breadths above the hay.