“Have you put this man on the roll, Harrod?” says he.

“No, Colonel,” answers Captain Harrod, amid the laughter of the men at my end.

“What!” says the Colonel, “what an oversight!  From this day he is drummer boy and orderly to the Commander-in-chief.  Beat the retreat, my man.”

I did my best, and as the men broke ranks they crowded around me, laughing and joking, and Cowan picked me up, drum and all, and carried me off, I rapping furiously the while.

And so I became a kind of handy boy for the whole regiment from the Colonel down, for I was willing and glad to work.  I cooked the Colonel’s meals, roasting the turkey breasts and saddles of venison that the hunters brought in from the mainland, and even made him journey-cake, a trick which Polly Ann had taught me.  And when I went about the island, if a man were loafing, he would seize his axe and cry, “Here’s Davy, he’ll tell the Colonel on me.”  Thanks to the jokes of Terence McCann, I gained an owl-like reputation for wisdom amongst these superstitious backwoodsmen, and they came verily to believe that upon my existence depended the success of the campaign.  But day after day passed, and no sign from Colonel Clark of his intentions.

“There’s a good lad,” said Terence.  “He’ll be telling us where we’re going.”

I was asked the same question by a score or more, but Colonel Clark kept his own counsel.  He himself was everywhere during the days that followed, superintending the work on the blockhouse we were building, and eying the men.  Rumor had it that he was sorting out the sheep from the goats, silently choosing those who were to remain on the island and those who were to take part in the campaign.

At length the blockhouse stood finished amid the yellow stumps of the great trees, the trunks of which were in its walls.  And suddenly the order went forth for the men to draw up in front of it by companies, with the families of the emigrants behind them.  It was a picture to fix itself in a boy’s mind, and one that I have never forgotten.  The line of backwoodsmen, as fine a lot of men as I ever wish to see, bronzed by the June sun, strong and tireless as the wild animals of the forest, stood expectant with rifles grounded.  And beside the tallest, at the end of the line, was a diminutive figure with a drum hung in front of it.  The early summer wind rustled in the forest, and the never ending song of the Great Falls sounded from afar.  Apart, square-shouldered and indomitable, stood a young man of twenty-six.

“My friends and neighbors,” he said in a firm voice, “there is scarce a man standing among you to-day who has not suffered at the hands of savages.  Some of you have seen wives and children killed before your eyes—­or dragged into captivity.  None of you can to-day call the home for which he has risked so much his own.  And who, I ask you, is to blame for this hideous war?  Whose gold is it that buys guns and powder and lead to send the Shawnee and the Iroquois and Algonquin on the warpath?”