see nothing. A branch
whipped me in the face, and I ducked. I was not quick enough; it
was like fencing in the dark. A big bough hit me, raking the
withers of my horse, and I rolled off headlong in a lot of bushes.
The horse went on, out of hearing, but I was glad enough to lie
still, for I had begun to know of my bruises. In a few minutes I
took off my boots and emptied them, and wrung my blouse, and lay
back, cursing my ill luck.

But that year of 1813 had the kick of ill fortune in it for every
mother's son of us there in the North country. I have ever noticed
that war goes in waves of success or failure; If we had had Brown
or Scott to lead us that year, instead of Wilkinson, I believe it
had had a better history. Here was I in the enemy's country. God
knew where, or how, or when I should come out of it. I thought of
D'ri and how it had gone with him in that hell of waters. I knew
it would be hard to drown him. We were so near shore, if he had
missed the rocks I felt sure he would come out safely. I thought
of Louison and Louise, and wondered if ever I should see them
again. Their faces shone upon me there in the windy darkness, and
one as brightly as the other. Afterwhiles I drew my wet blouse
over me and went asleep, shivering.

A familiar sound woke me--that of the reveille. The sun was
shining, the sky clear, the wind had gone down. A crow sat calling
in a tree above my head. I lay in a strip of timber, thin and
narrow, on the lake shore. Through the bushes I could see the
masts of the brig slanting out of water some rods away. Beyond the
timber was a field of corn, climbing a side-hill that sloped off to
a level, grassy plain. Beyond the hill-top, reveille was still
sounding. A military camp was near me, and although I made no
move, my mind was up and busy as the drumsticks over the hill. I
sat as quiet as a cat at a mouse-hole, looking down at my uniform,
not, indeed, the most healthful sort of dress for that country.
All at once I caught sight of a scarecrow in the corn. I laughed
at the odd grotesquery of the thing--an old frock-coat and trousers
of olive-green, faded and torn and fat with straw. A stake driven
through its collar into the earth, and crowned with an ancient,
tall hat of beaver, gave it a backbone. An idea came to me. I
would rob the scarecrow and hide my uniform. I ran out and hauled
it over, and pulled the stuffing out of it. The coat and trousers
were made fo