Laura Secord, the Heroine of 1812 | Page 9

come back and lay this cloth,
And wait at
table properly with Flos.
Enter a_ Sergeant, _a_ Corporal _and four Privates.
_Sergeant (striking Pete on the head with his cane)_. That's for your
ugly phiz and impudence.
[Exit Pete, howling.
(To Mrs. Secord.) Your slaves are saucy, Mistress Secord.
Mrs. Secord. Well, sir!
Sergeant. None of my business, eh? Well, 'tis sometimes, You see. You
got my message: what's to eat?
Mrs. Secord. My children's food, sir. This nor post-house is, Nor inn, to
take your orders.
[FLOS and_ PETE _enter, carrying dishes.
Sergeant. O, bless you, we don't order; we command.
Here, men, sit
down.
[_He seats himself at the head of the table,
and the others
take their places, some of them
greeting_ MRS. SECORD
with a salute of respect.
Boy, fill those jugs. You girl,
Set that dish down by me, and haste
with more.
Bacon's poor stuff when lamb and mint's in season.
Why
don't you kill that lamb, Ma'am Secord?

Mrs. Secord. 'Tis a child's pet.
Sergeant. O, pets be hanged!
[Exit MRS. SECORD.
Corporal. Poor thing! I'm sure none of us want the lamb.
A Private. We'll have it, though, and more, if Boerstler--
Corporal. Hold your tongue, you--
Second Private (drinking). Here's good luck, my boys, to that surprise--
_Corporal (aside)_. Fool!
_Sergeant (drinking)_. Here's to to-morrow and a cloudy night. Fill all
your glasses, boys.

SCENE 3.--_Mrs. Secord's bedroom. She is walking up and down in
much agitation_.
Enter MR. SECORD.
Mrs. Secord (springing to meet him). Oh, James, where have you been?
Mr. Secord. I did but ramble through the pasture, dear, And round the
orchard. 'Twas so sweet and still.
Save for the echo of the sentry's
tread
O'er the hard road, it might have been old times.

But--but--you're agitated, dear; what's wrong?
I see our unasked
visitors were here.
Was that--?
Mrs. Secord. Not that; yet that. Oh, James, I scarce can bear The
stormy swell that surges o'er my heart,
Awaked by what they have
revealed this night.
Mr. Secord. Dear wife, what is't?

Mrs. Secord. Oh, sit you down and rest, for you will need All strength
you may command to hear me tell.
[Mr. Secord sits down, his wife by him.
That saucy fellow, Winter, and a guard
Came and demanded supper;
and, of course,
They had to get it. Pete and Flos I left
To wait on
them, but soon they sent them off,
Their jugs supplied,--and fell
a-talking, loud,
As in defiance, of some private plan
To make the
British wince. Word followed word,
Till I, who could not help but
hear their gibes,
Suspected mischief, and, listening, learned the whole.

To-morrow night a large detachment leaves
Fort George for
Beaver Dam. Five hundred men,
With some dragoons, artillery, and a
train
Of baggage-waggons, under Boerstler, go
To fall upon
Fitzgibbon by surprise,
Capture the stores, and pay for Stony Creek.
Mr. Secord. My God! and here am I, a paroled cripple!
Oh, Canada,
my chosen country! Now--
Is't now, in this thy dearest strait, I fail?

I, who for thee would pour my blood with joy--
Would give my life
for thy prosperity--
Most I stand by, and see thy foes prevail

Without one thrust?
[In his agitation he rises.
Mrs. Secord. Oh, calm thee, dear; thy strength is all to me. Fitzgibbon
shall be warned, or aid be sent.
Mr. Secord. But how, wife? how? Let this attempt succeed, As well it
may, and vain last year's success;
In vain fell Brock: in vain was
Queenston fought:
In vain we pour out blood and gold in streams:

For Dearborn then may push his heavy force
Along the lakes, with
long odds in his favour.
And I, unhappy wretch, in such a strait
Am
here, unfit for service. Thirty men
Are all Fitzgibbon has to guard the
stores
And keep a road 'twixt Bisshopp and De Haren.
Those stores,
that road, would give the Yankee all.

Mrs. Secord. Why, be content now, dear. Had we not heard, This plot
might have passed on to its dire end,
Like the pale owl that noiseless
cleaves the dark,
And, on its dreaming prey, swoops with fell claw.
Mr. Secord. What better is it?
Mrs. Secord. This; that myself will go to Beaver Dam,
And warn
Fitzgibbon: there is yet a day.
Mr. Secord. Thou! thou take a task at which a man might shrink? No,
no, dear wife! Not so.
Mrs. Secord. Ay, prithee, let me go;
'Tis not so far. And I can pass
unharmed
Where you would be made prisoner, or worse.
They'll
not hurt me--my sex is my protection.
Mr. Secord. Oh, not in times like these. Let them suspect A shadow
wrong, and neither sex, nor tears,
Nor tenderness would save thy fate.
Mrs. Secord.