The ebb and flow of battles on sea and land in the War of 1812 and '14 do not belong to this story. Sir John Sherbrooke's despatch of men fresh from the European wars to Eastport, Castine, Bangor and Machias, Maine, and the retention of the Penobscot and St. Croix by the British till the war was over, are matters of history. So also is the victory of the American General Macomb at Plattsburg, where with five ships of war and fifteen hundred men he drove back twice as many British vessels and troops under the command of their weak and incapable head. No wonder that officers broke their swords and vowed they would never fight again under such a leader. But on the war dragged, sometimes with success on one side, sometimes on the other; and if it had not been for the harassing blockade of the Atlantic seaboard, when Britain's navy, let loose from European conflict, came over to fight the battles of her colonies, it is hard to tell where the fratricidal war would have ended.

Month after month passed by. Villages were pillaged; forts were captured and recaptured; cities were bombarded and wasted; York was ransacked; Niagara was burned; Washington was stormed by shot and shell and its buildings set on fire. Even after peace was declared, the final battle of New Orleans still had to be fought, where two thousand of the flower of the British troops were lost within the trenches, their general slain and the remainder put to flight, while only a handful of the American defenders in their entrenched position were either wounded or slain.

Such is war with its mighty agony, its seas of flowing blood, its tumultuous passion, its frenzied rage, the most inhuman of all human things; and yet withal, the purifier and ennobler of the races of men, who would not do without it, and thank God that it was abolished? And yet, when rights are trampled on, when liberty is invaded, when oppression is rampant, with Empire in the van, who would not draw the sword again, and thank God that by its glitter and fury, wrong could be righted and truth made plain?

At last peace was declared, and the tired people of both nations but of the one race, wondered what they had been fighting about.

Without solving the question they smoked the calumet, offering up the fumes as incense while they fervently prayed that the tyrannies of life should never again force them to draw swords against each other.

To Penetang, however, the din of battle did not come. Month after month during that first long summer, the troops revelled in the ways of peace; and it was astonishing what progress they made in the practice of the mechanical arts. In Captain Payne's engineering corps were carpenters, masons, blacksmiths, saddlers, tailors, and men who had followed a dozen other trades—all useful, aye, more than useful—in the founding and establishment of the new garrison.

By the end of August the walls of the stone fort were up and an army of men were working with energy towards its completion. The design was to have it ready for occupation before winter arrived. The trail cut through to Little York had also proved of service, for as the months passed by, mail matter and goods were carried regularly over to Penetang.

While all else denoted prosperity, the non-return of the Bumble Bee caused much anxiety; for throughout the long summer nothing was heard of it, not a single word came from either Corporal or Skipper. Many were the conjectures, and night after night was the subject discussed around the camp fires of the little garrison.

Mrs. Bond had a little room in Mrs. Hardman's quarters, and from her larger experience and fuller confidence in her husband, she was the more hopeful of the two.

"Whatever has happened to Latimer, Peter Bond will be sure to come back. He's the honestest man alive, and he'd die before he'd turn traitor," were her words.

"That's true; but suppose the Yankees 'ave shot the men and cabbaged the boat?" suggested her pessimistic friend.

"It might be," returned Mrs. Bond, tightly drawing in her lips, "but the Bumble Bee wasn't a fighting craft. Yankees might steal her, and all she 'ad aboard, but it wouldn't be natural for 'em to kill the men. They'll both turn up sometime. I'll warrant that."

"She's just right," returned Private Hardman. "They may 'ave taken 'em prisoners and looted the craft, but that's the worst that could 'ave 'appened 'em."

"An' vat about de voman?" asked Bateese, who had just come down from Helen's cottage.

"They'd set her free, and she's hanging round till her ole man gets off," said Hardman.

"Mebbe," commented his wife.

"Yes, mebbe," said Hardman. "They're not dead anyway. The Corporal will come back again in time, but Latimer and his wife mayn't. Why should they? They're gone three months. What 'ud be the use?"

"We'll miss the woman worst," said his wife. "She's like one of ourselves. It's too bad, when there's so few of us."

"If my man turns up I won't care much about the rest," said Mrs. Bond. "Though I did hear Mrs. Manning say that if it hadn't been for Latimer's wife, when she first come, she didn't know what she would 'a done. But my! She had a sperit. She kep' the ole fellow in his place I tell you."

"Vas she de boss?" Bateese asked.

"Inside that little box cabin of hers she was."

"What about the obeyin' bizness, as the prayer book says?" enquired Hardman.

"Inside he did the obeying—outside, she did."

"By Gar, dat's about vat it should be!" exclaimed Bateese. "Now, my Emmiline she boss me inside alvays. She say, 'Bateese, you come here.' I come. 'You go dere.' I come too. She say, 'Bateese, vous garÇon, vat you make dat splash on de floor?' I say, 'Pardonnez moi, mon ami,' She say, 'All right,' an' I don't make it no more. Den I go outside and make splash all over eff I want to."

"And do you want to?" said Hardman. For answer Bateese shrugged his shoulders.

"How is Emmiline tonight?" Mrs. Hardman asked. "I 'aven't seen her since morning.

"She be nice—but I stay 'most too long—she vant you to come and see her again right away."

"And how is the boy?"

"Fine! Oh, mon fils, he beeg bouncing garÇon. Doctare say he weigh ten pound—an' he so goot he almost laff."

"Bateese, you're crazy."

"Veil! he open his eye and try to laugh—den—cause he can't, he cry."

And Bateese hurried off, after his long wait, to tell Emmiline that Mrs. Hardman was coming.

One Sunday morning several weeks later, the Chaplain was waited on by Bateese. Breakfast was over, and having arranged his books and notes, he was putting on his surplice in preparation for the service he was about to hold in the barrack yard.

"Good morning, Bateese," said the Chaplain.

"Goot mornin', Padre," replied the habitant, pulling his forelock.

"What can I do for you?"

The exceeding gravity of Bateese's countenance made his mission very uncertain.

"Nothing wrong, I hope. Is Madame Bateese well?"

"Oui, oui, Padre."

"And that big bouncing boy of yours?"

"Yes, he tres bien, Monsieur."

"Well, my man, I'm glad to hear it. Tell me now what you want. You see I haven't much time to lose. The men are gathering for the service."

"Veil, Monsieur, it ess about de boy. Ve call him George after de Colonel, and Emil after me, and Emmiline want to have him baptize, vat you call christen."

"I'll be glad to do it, but you are too late for this service."

"Dat all right—we don't vant no service—ve vant it done all by hisself."

"But the Church does not baptize its children that way. They are done in the congregation before the people."

"But, Padre, me an' Emmiline goot Cat'liques. Ve no Engleese. Only no priest in de troop—and Emmiline go clean crazy if ve no get it done. You know, Padre, ve loss our dear petite babees. Ve no vant to loss dis wan too."

"I see," said Mr. Evans. "You want me to christen the child privately."

"Yees, Padre."

"Well, bring him over to my quarters at three o'clock and I will do it then."

Bateese, while expressing his thanks for the Chaplain's kindness, still appeared nervous and stood twisting his hat as before.

"One more ting, Padre, Emmiline alvays goot Cat'lique. Alvays go to church, alvays count her beads at night. Vell she see de curÉ before she leave Kebec, and he say—if she ever have child again, an' leeve vere dere is no priest—she must burn holy candles and have holy vater—an' den some minister of some oder church could baptize de boy all de sam."

"And have you got the candles and the holy water?" the Chaplain asked with a smile.

"Oh, yees—Emmiline bring everyting."

"So she got them from the priest six months ago and brought them with her to celebrate the christening."

"Oui, Padre, she did."

"She's a good woman," returned the clergyman, laughing heartily, "and although its against the rule to use holy water and candles at a christening, tell her I will do my best—and shall baptize the boy as well as any priest could do it in Quebec—and to please her I will use both."

A halo of light spread all over the little Frenchman's face, and happy as a king he hastened away to tell the good news to Emmiline.

So that Sunday afternoon was celebrated the first christening among the troops at Penetang. It was made memorable, too, in more ways than one, for at the request of Emmiline, Mrs. Manning acted as godmother, while in honor of its priority and from the fact that the child was named after himself, Sir George accepted the position as godfather; both of which events delighted not only the parents of the child but the whole garrison as well.