D\'Ri and I by Irving Bacheller

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D'RI AND I

A TALE of DARING DEEDS in the SECOND WAR with the BRITISH.

Being the Memoirs of Colonel Ramon Bell, U.S.A.

BY IRVING BACHELLER, author of "Eben Holden."

1901

TO MY WIFE

PREFACE

This is a tale of the adventurous and rugged pioneers, who,
unconquered by other foes, were ever at war with the ancient
wilderness, pushing the northern frontier of the white man farther
and farther to the west. Early in the last century they had
striped the wild waste of timber with roadways from Lake Champlain
to Lake Ontario, and spotted it with sown acres wide and fair; and
still, as they swung their axes with the mighty vigor of great
arms, the forest fell before them,

In a long valley south of the St. Lawrence, sequestered by river,
lake, and wilderness, they were slow to lose the simplicity, the
dialect, and the poverty of their fathers.

Some Frenchmen of wealth and title, having fled the Reign of
Terror, bought a tract of wild country there (six hundred and
thirty thousand acres) and began to fill it with fine homes. It
was said the great Napoleon himself would some day build a chateau
among them. A few men of leisure built manor-houses on the river
front, and so the Northern Yankee came to see something of the
splendor of the far world, with contempt, as we may well imagine,
for its waste of time and money.

Those days the North country was a theatre of interest and renown.
Its play was a tragedy; its setting the ancient wilderness; its
people of all conditions from king to farm hand. Chateau and
cabin, trail and forest road, soldier and civilian, lake and river,
now moonlit, now sunlit, now under ice and white with snow, were of
the shifting scenes in that play. Sometimes the stage was overrun
with cavalry and noisy with the clang of steel and the roar of the
carronade.

The most important episodes herein are of history,--so romantic was
the life of that time and region. The marriage is almost literally
a matter of record.

A good part of the author's life has been spent among the children
of those old raiders--Yankee and Canadian--of the north and south
shores of the big river. Many a tale of the camp and the night
ride he has heard in the firelight of a winter's evening; long
familiar to him are the ruins of a rustic life more splendid in its
day than any north of Virginia. So his color is not all of books,
but of inheritance and of memory as well.

The purpose of this tale is to extend acquaintance with the plain
people who sweat and bled and limped and died for this Republic of
ours. Darius, or "D'ri" as the woods folk called him, was a
pure-bred Yankee, quaint, rugged, wise, truthful; Ramon had the
hardy traits of a Puritan father, softened by the more romantic
temperament of a French mother. They had no more love of fighting
than they had need of it.

CONTENTS

PREFACE

INTRODUCTION

CHAPTER
I.
II.
III.
IV.
V.
VI.
VII.
VIII.
IX.
X.
XI.
XII.
XIII.
XIV.
XV.
XVI.
XVII.
XVIII.
XIX.
XX.
XXI.
XXII.
XXIII.
XXIV.
XXV.
XXVI.
XXVII.

[Transcriber's Note: The chapters in the original text were numbered,
but had no titles.]

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

LOUISE

D'RI AND I

I COULD NOT TELL WHICH OF THE TWO GIRLS I LOVED THE BETTER

HE WOULD HAVE FOUGHT TO THE DEATH IF I HAD BUT GIVEN HIM WORD

"COME, NOW, MY PRETTY PRISONER"

"WE 'LL TEK CARE O' THE OL' BRIG"

WE WERE BOTH NEAR BREAKING DOWN

"THEN I LEAVE ALL FOR YOU"

INTRODUCTION

From a letter of Captain Darius Hawkins, U. S. A., introducing
Ramon Bell to the Comte de Chaumont:--

"MY DEAR COUNT: I commend to your kind offices my young friend
Ramon Bell, the son of Captain Bell, a cavalry officer who long ago
warmed his sword in the blood of the British on many a
battle-field. The young man is himself a born soldier, as brave as
he is tall and handsome. He has been but a month in the army, yet
I have not before seen a man who could handle horse and sword as if
they were part of him. He is a gentleman, also, and one after your
own heart, I know, my dear count, you will do everything you can to
further the work intrusted to him.

"Your obedient servant,
"DARIUS HAWKINS."

From a letter of Joseph Bonaparte, Comte de Survilliers,
introducing his friend Colonel Ramon Bell to Napoleon III of
France:--

"He has had a career romantic and interesting beyond that of any
man I have met in America. In the late war with England he was the
master of many situations most perilous and difficult. The scars
of ten bullets and four sabre-thrusts are on his body. It gives me
great pleasure, my dear Louis, to make you to know one of the most
gallant and chivalrous of men. He has other claims upon your
interest and hospitality, with which he will acquaint you in his
own delightful way."

D'RI AND I

I

A poet may be a good companion, but, so far as I know, he is ever
the worst of fathers. Even as grandfather he is too near, for one
poet can lay a streak of poverty over three generations. Doubt not
I know whereof I speak, dear reader, for my mother's father was a
poet--a French poet, too, whose lines had crossed the Atlantic long
before that summer of 1770 when he came to Montreal. He died
there, leaving only debts and those who had great need of a better
legacy--my mother and grandmother.

As to my father, he had none of that fatal folly in him. He was a
mountaineer of Vermont--a man of steely sinews that took well to
the grip of a sword. He cut his way to fame in the Northern army
when the British came first to give us battle, and a bloody way it
was. I have now a faded letter from Ethan Allen, grim old warrior,
in which he calls my father "the best swordsman that ever straddled
a horse." He was a "gallous chap" in his youth, so said my
grandmother, with a great love of good clothes and gunpowder. He
went to Montreal, as a boy, to be educated; took lessons in
fencing, fought a duel, ran away from school, and came home with
little learning and a wife. Punished by disinheritance, he took a
farm, and left the plough to go into battle.

I wonder often that my mother could put up with the stress and
hardship of his life, for she had had gentle breeding, of which I
knew little until I was grown to manhood, when I came to know also
what a woman will do for the love of her heart. I remember well
those tales of knights and ladies she used to tell me as we sat
together of an evening, and also those adventures of her own
knight, my good father, in the war with the British. My love of
arms and of a just quarrel began then.

After the war came hard times. My father had not prospered
handsomely, when, near the end of the summer of 1803, he sold his
farm, and we all started West, over rough trails and roadways.
There were seven of us, bound for the valley of the St.
Lawrence--my father and mother, my two sisters, my grandmother,
D'ri, the hired man, and myself, then a sturdy boy of ten. We had
an ox-team and -cart that carried our provision, the sacred feather
beds of my mother, and some few other things.

[Illustration: D'Ri and I.]

We drove with us the first flock of sheep that ever went West.
There were forty of them, and they filled our days with trouble.
But for our faithful dog Rover, I fear we should have lost heart
and left them to the wild wolves. The cart had a low cover of
canvas, and my mother and grandmother sat on the feather beds, and
rode with small comfort even where the roads were level. My father
let me carry my little pet rooster in a basket that hung from the
cart-axle when not in my keeping. The rooster had a harder time
than any of us, I fancy, for the days were hot and the roads rough.
He was always panting, with open mouth and thoughtful eye, when I
lifted the cover. But every day he gave us an example of
cheerfulness not wholly without effect. He crowed triumphantly,
betimes, in the hot basket, even when he was being tumbled about on
the swamp ways. Nights I always found a perch for him on the limb
of a near tree, above the reach of predatory creatures. Every
morning, as the dawn showed faintly in the tree-tops, he gave it a
lusty cheer, napping his wings with all the seeming of delight.
Then, often, while the echo rang, I would open my eyes and watch
the light grow in .the dusky cavern of the woods. He would sit
dozing awhile after the first outbreak, and presently as the flood
of light grew clearer, lift himself a little, take another peep at
the sky, and crow again, turning his head to hear those weird,
mocking roosters of the timber-land. Then, shortly, I would hear
my father poking the fire or saying, as he patted the rooster:
"Sass 'em back, ye noisy little brat! Thet 's right: holler. Tell
D'ri it's time t' bring some wood fer the fire."

In a few minutes the pot and kettle would be boiling and the camp
all astir. We had trout and partridge and venison a-plenty for our
meals, that were served in dishes of tin. Breakfast over, we
packed our things. The cart went on ahead, my father bringing the
oxen, while I started the sheep with D'ri.

Those sheep were as many thorns in our flesh that day we made off
in the deep woods from Lake Champlain. Travel was new to them, and
what with tearing through thickets and running wild in every slash,
they kept us jumping. When they were leg-weary and used to travel,
they began to go quietly. But slow work it was at best, ten or
twelve miles a day being all we could do, for the weather was hot
and our road like the way of the transgressor. Our second night in
the woods we could hear the wolves howling as we camped at dusk.
We built our fire near the shore of a big pond, its still water,
framed in the vivid green of young tamaracks. A great hill rose on
the farther side of it, with galleries of timber sloping to the
summit, and peopled with many birds. We huddled the sheep together
in a place where the trees were thick, while father brought from
the cart a coil of small rope. We wound it about the trees, so the
sheep were shut in a little yard. After supper we all sat by the
fire, while D'ri told how he had been chased by wolves in the
beaver country north of us.

D'ri was an odd character. He had his own way of expressing the
three degrees of wonder, admiration, and surprise.
"Jerushy!"--accented on the second syllable--was the positive,
"Jerushy Jane!" the comparative, and "Jerushy Jane Pepper!" the
superlative. Who that poor lady might be I often wondered, but
never ventured to inquire. In times of stress I have heard him
swear by "Judas Priest," but never more profanely. In his youth he
had been a sailor on the lake, when some artist of the needle had
tattooed a British jack on the back of his left hand--a thing he
covered, of shame now, when he thought of it. His right hand had
lost its forefinger in a sawmill. His rifle was distinguished by
the name of Beeswax,--"Ol' Beeswax" he called it sometimes,--for no
better reason than that it was "easy spoke an' hed a kind uv a
powerful soun' tew it." He had a nose like a shoemaker's thumb:
there was a deep incurve from its wide tip to his forehead. He had
a large, gray, inquiring eye and the watchful habit of the
woodsman. Somewhere in the midst of a story he would pause and
peer thoughtfully into the distance, meanwhile feeling the
pipe-stem with his lips, and then resume the narrative as suddenly
as he had stopped. He was a lank and powerful man, six feet tall
in his stockings. He wore a thin beard that had the appearance of
parched grass on his ruddy countenance. In the matter of hair,
nature had treated him with a generosity most unusual. His heavy
shock was sheared off square above his neck.

That evening, as he lay on his elbow in the firelight, D'ri had
just entered the eventful field of reminiscence. The women were
washing the dishes; my father had gone to the spring for water.
D'ri pulled up suddenly, lifted his hat of faded felt, and
listened, peering into the dusk.

"Seems t' me them wolves is comin' nearer," he said thoughtfully.

Their cries were echoing in the far timber. We all rose and
listened. In a moment my father came hurrying back with his pail
of water.

"D'ri," said he, quietly, as he threw some wood on the fire, "they
smell mutton. Mek the guns ready. We may git a few pelts.
There's a big bounty on 'em here 'n York State."

We all stood about the fire listening as the wolves came nearer.

"It 's the sheep thet brings 'em," said my father.

"Quite a consid'able number on 'em, tew," said D'ri, as he stood
cleaning the bore of his rifle.

My young sisters began to cry.

"Need n't be scairt," said father. "They won't come very near.
'Fraider of us 'n we are o' 'em, a good deal."

"Tow-w-w!" said D'ri, with a laugh. "They 'll be apt t' stub ther
toes 'fore they git very nigh us."

This did not quite agree with the tales he had previously been
telling. I went for my sword, and buckled its belt about me, the
scabbard hanging to my heels. Presently some creature came
bounding over the brush. I saw him break through the wall of
darkness and stop quickly in the firelight. Then D'ri brought him
down with his rifle.

"Started him up back there 'n the woods a few mild," said D'ri.
"He was mekin' fer this 'ere pond--thet 's what he was dewin'."

"What for?" I inquired.

"'Cause fer the reason why he knowed he would n't mek no tracks 'n
the water, ner no scent," said D'ri, with some show of contempt for
my ignorance.

The deer lay floundering in the briers some fifty feet away. My
father ran with his knife and put him quickly out of misery. Then
we hauled the carcass to clear ground.

"Let it lie where 't is fer now," said he, as we came back to the
fire. Then he got our two big traps out of the cart and set them
beside the carcass and covered them with leaves. The howling of
the wolves had ceased. I could hear only the creaking of a dead
limb high above us, and the bellow of frogs in the near pond. We
had fastened the trap chains and were coming back to the fire, when
the dog rose, barking fiercely; then we heard the crack of D'ri's
rifle.

"More 'n fifty wolves eroun' here," he whispered as we ran up to
him. "Never see sech a snag on 'em."

The sheep were stirring nervously. Near the pen a wolf lay kicking
where D'ri had dropped him.

"Rest on 'em snooked off when the gun hollered," he went on,
whispering as before.

My mother and grandmother sat with my sisters in the cart, hushing
their murmurs of fear. Early in the evening I had tied Rover to
the cart-wheel, where he was growling hotly, impatient of the leash.

"See?" said D'ri, pointing with his finger. "See 'em?--there 'n
the dark by thet air big hemlock."

We could make out a dim stir in the shadows where he pointed.
Presently we heard the spring and rattle of a trap. As we turned
that way, the other trap took hold hard; as it sprang, we could
hear a wolf yelp.

"Meks 'em holler," said D'ri, "thet ol' he-trap does, when it teks
holt. Stay here by the sheep, 'n' I 'll go over 'n' give 'em
somethin' fer spraint ankles."

Other wolves were swarming over the dead deer, and the two in the
traps were snarling and snapping at them. My father and D'ri fired
at the bunch, killing one of the captives and another--the largest
wolf I ever saw. The pack had slunk away as they heard the rifles.
Our remaining captive struggled to get free, but in a moment D'ri
had brained him with an axe. He and my father reset our traps and
hauled the dead wolves into the firelight. There they began to
skin them, for the bounty was ten dollars for each in the new
towns--a sum that made our adventure profitable. I built fires on
the farther side of the sheep, and, as they brightened, I could
see, here and there, the gleaming eyes of a wolf in the darkness.
I was up all night heaping wood upon the fires, while D'ri and my
father skinned the wolves and dressed the deer. I remember, as
they worked, D'ri calmed himself with the low-sung, familiar music
of:--

Li too rul I oorul I oorul I ay.

They had just finished when the cock crew.

"Holler, ye gol-dum little cuss!" D'ri shouted as he went over to
him. "Can't no snookin' wolf crack our bones fer _us_. Peeled
'em--thet 's what we done tew 'em! Tuk 'n' knocked 'em head over
heels. Judas Priest! He can peck a man's finger some, can't he?"

The light was coming, and he went off to the spring for water,
while I brought the spider and pots. The great, green-roofed
temple of the woods, that had so lately rung with the howl of
wolves, began to fill with far wandering echoes of sweet song.

"They was a big cat over there by the spring las' night," said
D'ri, as we all sat down to breakfast. "Tracks bigger 'n a
griddle! Smelt the mutton, mos' likely."

"Like mutton?" I inquired.

"Yis-sir-ee, they dew," said he. "Kind o' mince-pie fer 'em. Like
deer-meat, tew. Snook eroun' the ponds efter dark. Ef they see a
deer 'n the water they wallop 'im quicker 'n lightnin'; jump right
in k'slap 'n' tek 'im."

We were off at sunrise, on a road that grew rougher every mile. At
noon we came to a river so swollen as to make a dangerous ford.
After dinner my father waded in, going hips under where the water
was deep and swift. Then he cut a long pole and took my mother on
his shoulders and entered the broad stream, steadying himself with
the pole. When she had got down safe on the other side, he came
back for grandmother and my sisters, and took them over in the same
way. D'ri, meanwhile, bound up the feather beds and carried them
on his head, leaving the dog and me to tend the sheep. All our
blankets and clothing were carried across in the same manner. Then
I mounted the cart, with my rooster, lashing the oxen till they
took to the stream. They had tied the bell-wether to the axle,
and, as I started, men and dog drove the sheep after me. The oxen
wallowed in the deep water, and our sheep, after some hesitation,
began to swim. The big cart floated like a raft part of the way,
and we landed with no great difficulty. Farther on, the road
became nothing better than a rude trail, where, frequently, we had
to stop and chop through heavy logs and roll them away. On a steep
hillside the oxen fell, breaking the tongue, and the cart tipped
sidewise and rolled bottom up. My rooster was badly flung about,
and began crowing and flapping as the basket settled. When I
opened it, he flew out, running for his life, as if finally
resolved to quit us. Fortunately, we were all walking, and nobody
was hurt. My father and D'ri were busy half a day "righting up,"
as they called it, mending the tongue and cover, and getting the
cart on its wheels and down the steep pitch.

After two days of trail travel we came out on the Chateaugay road,
stopping awhile to bait our sheep and cattle on the tame grass and
tender briers. It was a great joy to see the clear road, with here
and there a settler's cabin, its yard aglow with the marigold, the
hollyhock, and the fragrant honeysuckle. We got to the tavern at
Chateaugay about dusk, and put up for the night, as becomes a
Christian.

Next afternoon we came to rough roads again, camping at sundown
along the shore of a noisy brook. The dog began to bark fiercely
while supper was making, and scurried off into a thicket.

D'ri was stooping over, cooking the meat. He rose and listened.

"Thet air dog's a leetle scairt," said he. "Guess we better go 'n'
see whut 's the matter."

He took his rifle and I my sword,--I never thought of another
weapon,--making off through the brush. The dog came whining to
D'ri and rushing on, eager for us to follow. We hurried after him,
and in a moment D'ri and the dog, who were ahead of me, halted
suddenly.

"It 's a painter," said D'ri, as I came up. "See 'im in thet air
tree-top. I 'll larrup 'im with Ol' Beeswax, then jes' like es not
he 'll mek some music. Better grab holt o' the dog. 'T won't dew
fer 'im to git tew rambunctious, er the fust thing he knows he
won't hev no insides in 'im."

I could see the big cat clinging high in the top boughs of a birch
and looking calmly down at us. The tree-top swayed, quivering, as
it held the great dun beast. My heart was like to smother me when
D'ri raised his rifle and took aim. The dog broke away at the
crack of it. The painter reeled and spat; then he came crashing
through the branches, striking right and left with his fore paws to
save himself. He hit the ground heavily, and the dog was on him.
The painter lay as if dead. Before I could get near, Rover began
shaking him by the neck. He came to suddenly, and struck the dog
with a front claw, dragging him down. A loud yelp followed the
blow. Quick as a flash D'ri had caught the painter by the tail and
one hind leg. With a quick surge of his great, slouching
shoulders, he flung him at arm's-length. The lithe body doubled on
a tree trunk, quivered, and sank down, as the dog came free. In a
jiffy I had run my sword through the cat's belly and made an end of
him.

"Knew 'f he got them hind hooks on thet air dog he 'd rake his ribs
right off," said D'ri, as he lifted his hat to scratch his head.
"Would n't 'a' left nothin' but the backbone,--nut a thing,--an'
thet would n't 'a' been a real fust-class one, nuther."

When D'ri was very positive, his words were well braced with
negatives.

We took the painter by the hind legs and dragged him through the
bushes to our camp. The dog had a great rip across his shoulder,
where the claws had struck and made furrows; but he felt a mighty
pride in our capture, and never had a better appetite for a meal.

There were six more days of travel in that journey--travel so
fraught with hardships, I wonder that some days we had the heart to
press on. More than all, I wonder that the frail body of my mother
was equal to it. But I am writing no vain record of endurance. I
have written enough to suggest what moving meant in the wilderness.
There is but one more color in the scenes of that journey. The
fourth day after we left Chateaugay my grandmother fell ill and
died suddenly there in the deep woods. We were far from any
village, and sorrow slowed our steps. We pushed on, coming soon to
a sawmill and a small settlement. They told us there was neither
minister nor undertaker within forty miles. My father and D'ri
made the coffin of planed lumber, and lined it with deerskin, and
dug the grave on top of a high hill. When all was ready, my
father, who had always been much given to profanity, albeit I know
he was a kindly and honest man with no irreverence in his heart,
called D'ri aside.

"D'ri," said he, "ye 've alwus been more proper-spoken than I hev.
Say a word o' prayer?"

"Don't much b'lieve I could," said he, thoughtfully. "I hev been
t' meeting but I hain't never been no great hand fer prayin'."

"'T wouldn't sound right nohow, fer me t' pray," said my father, "I
got s' kind o' rough when I was in the army."

"'Fraid it 'll come a leetle unhandy fer me," said D'ri, with a
look of embarrassment, "but I don't never shirk a tough job ef it
hes t' be done."

Then he stepped forward, took off his faded hat, his brow wrinkling
deep, and said, in a drawling preacher tone that had no sound of
D'ri in it: "O God, tek care o' gran'ma. Help us t' go on careful,
an' when we 're riled, help us t' keep er mouths shet. O God, help
the ol' cart, an' the ex in pertic'lar. An' don't be noway hard on
us. Amen."

II

June was half over when we came to our new home in the town of
Madrid--then a home only for the foxes and the fowls of the air and
their wild kin of the forest. The road ran through a little valley
thick with timber and rock-bound on the north. There were four
families within a mile of us, all comfortably settled in small log
houses. For temporary use we built a rude bark shanty that had a
partition of blankets, living in this primitive manner until my
father and D'ri had felled the timber and built a log house. We
brought flour from Malone,--a dozen sacks or more,--and while they
were building, I had to supply my mother with fish and game and
berries for the table--a thing easy enough to do in that land of
plenty. When the logs were cut and hewn I went away, horseback, to
Canton for a jug of rum. I was all day and half the night going
and coming, and fording the Grasse took me stirrups under.

Then the neighbors came to the raising--a jolly company that
shouted "Hee, oh, hee!" as they lifted each heavy log to its place,
and grew noisier quaffing the odorous red rum, that had a mighty
good look to me, although my father would not hear of my tasting
it. When it was all over, there was nothing to pay but our
gratitude.

While they were building bunks, I went off to sawmill with the oxen
for boards and shingles. Then, shortly, we had a roof over us, and
floors to walk on, and that luxury D'ri called a "pyaz," although
it was not more than a mere shelf with a roof over it. We chinked
the logs with moss and clay at first, putting up greased paper in
the window spaces. For months we knew not the luxury of the glass
pane.

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