CHAMBLY and St. John’s are twelve miles apart. St. John’s is the end of navigation for vessels going north from Lake Champlain, and Chambly is the end of navigation for vessels coming south from the St. Lawrence; and between the two towns the Richelieu leaps down from the level of Lake Champlain to that of the St. Lawrence in a series of shoals, ledges, rapids and tumbling cataracts.

Those twelve miles are a barrier to an invading army wishful of moving from Canada to Lake Champlain; for no vessel can pass over them; and the army that attempts it must disembark at Chambly, abandon its vessels, march to St. John’s, and there build new vessels for the transporting of men, guns and supplies.

Therefore Chambly is a strategic point, and a fort was built there during the old French wars—an ugly square thing on a weed-grown plain between the upper and lower rapids.

When I came down the road on that hot June afternoon, there were tents on the plain, pitched with no appearance of military neatness; and on the river bank were piles of unguarded supplies. There was a rumpled, deserted look about the whole place, such as is seen around an ill-kept tavern early in the morning.

I kicked my plow-horse in the ribs and rode up to the drawbridge of the fort. A ragged sentry sat on the planks, staring into the weedy water in the ditch.

“Message for Colonel Hazen,” I told him.

He jerked his head toward the open gateway of the fort, so I gave him my horse’s reins and entered the dark interior. In the guard-room I found a man mending rips in his trousers; but when I asked for Colonel Hazen, he shook his head absently and remained engrossed in his needlework. “Busy,” he murmured. “In quarters—talking to somebody.”

“I’ve got to see him quick,” I said. “I’ve got a message from General Arnold. It’s important.”

He looked up at me. “From General Arnold? You’ll be welcome here! Welcome as a pole-cat! Hazen’s got Bedel with him—Bedel and Colonel Easton and Major Brown.”

“I’m not here to be welcomed,” I said. “I’m here to give him this message.”

He eyed me queerly, made a neat knot in the twine with which he was sewing, sawed it off with a jackknife, wrapped his needle and twine remnant in an old rag, and led me down a passageway smelling of ammonia.

“Is Colonel Bedel the one that was at the Cedars?” I asked.

“The one that wasn’t there, you mean,” he whispered. “Yes, that’s him.”

“I thought he was being court-martialed for cowardice.”

The man made no answer, but stopped at a door behind which I heard mumblings. He jerked a thumb at the door and went away, stepping softly. When I knocked, the sound ceased: then a sulky voice said, “Come in.”