Autumn had passed away, and winter, the stern invigorating winter of beautiful America had already covered the earth with enduring snows, and the waters with bridges of seemingly eternal ice, and yet no effort had been made by the Americans to repossess themselves of the country they had so recently lost. The several garrisons of Detroit and Malden, reposing under the laurels they had so easily won, made holiday of their conquest; and, secure in the distance that separated them from the more populous districts of the Union, seemed to have taken it for granted that they had played their final part in the active operations of the war, and would be suffered to remain in undisturbed possession. But the storm was already brewing in the far distance which, advancing progressively like the waves of the coming tempest, was destined first to shake them in their security, and finally to overwhelm them in its vortex. With the natural enterprise of their character, the Americans had no sooner ascertained the fall of Detroit, than means slow but certain, were taken for the recovery of a post, with which, their national glory was in no slight decree identified. The country whence they drew their resources for the occasion, were the new states of Ohio and Kentucky, and one who had previously travelled through those immense tracts of forests, where the dwelling of the backwoodsman is met with at long intervals, would have marvelled at the zeal and promptitude with which these adventurous people, abandoning their homes, and disregarding their personal interests, flocked to the several rallying points. Armed and accoutred at their own expense, with the unerring rifle that provided them with game, and the faithful hatchet that had brought down the dark forest into ready subjection to their will, their claim upon the public was for the mere sustenance they required on service. It is true that this partial independence of the Government whom they served rather in the character of volunteers, than of conscripts, was in a great measure fatal to their discipline; but in the peculiar warfare of the country, absence of discipline was rather an advantage than a demerit, since when checked, or thrown into confusion, they looked not for a remedy in the resumption of order, but in the exercise each of his own individual exertions, facilitated as he was by his general knowledge of localities, and his confidence in his own personal resources.

But although new armies were speedily organized—if organized may be termed those who brought with them into the contest much courage and devotedness, yet little discipline—the Americans, in this instance, proceeded with a caution that proved their respect for the British garrison, strongly supported as it was by a numerous force of Indians. Within two months after the capitulation of Detroit, a considerable army, Ohioans and Kentuckians, with some regular infantry, had been pushed forward as with a view to feel their way; but these having been checked by the sudden appearance of a detachment from Fort Malden, had limited their advance to the Miami River, on the banks of which, and on the ruins of one of the old English forts of Pontiac's days, they had constructed new fortifications, and otherwise strongly entrenched themselves. It was a mistake, however, to imagine that the enemy would be content with establishing himself here. The new fort merely served as a nucleus for the concentration of such resources of men and warlike equipment, as were necessary to the subjection, firstly of Detroit, and afterwards of Fort Malden. Deprived of the means of transport, the shallow bed of the Miami aiding them but little, it was a matter of no mean difficulty with the Americans to convey, through several hundred miles of forest, the heavy guns they required for battering, and as it was only at intervals this could be effected—the most patient endurance and unrelaxing perseverance being necessary to the end. From the inactivity of this force, or rather the confinement of its operations to objects of defence, the English garrison had calculated on undisturbed security, at least throughout the winter, if not for a longer period; but, although it was not until this latter season was far advanced that the enemy broke up from his entrenchments on the Miami, and pushed himself forward for the attainment of his final view, the error of imputing inactivity to him was discovered at a moment when it was least expected.

It was during a public ball given at Amherstburg, on the 18th of January, 1813, that the first intelligence was brought of the advance of a strong American force, whose object it was supposed was to push rapidly on to Detroit, leaving Amherstburg behind to be disposed of later. The officer who brought this intelligence was the fat Lieutenant Raymond, who, commanding an outpost at the distance of some leagues, had been surprised, and after a resistance very creditable under the circumstances, driven in by the American advanced guard with a loss of nearly half his command.

Thus was the same consternation produced in the ball-room at Amherstburg, that at a later period occurred in a similar place of amusement at Brussels; and although not followed by the same momentous public results, producing the same host of fluttering fears and anxieties in the bosoms of the female votaries of Terpsichore. We believe, however, that there existed some dissimilarity in the several modes of communication—the Duke of Wellington receiving his, with some appearance of regard on the part of the communicator for the nerves of the ladies, while to Colonel St. Julian, commanding at Amherstburg, and engaged at that moment at the whist-table, the news was imparted in stentorian tones, which were audible to every one in the adjoining ball-room.

But even if his voice had not been heard, the appearance of Lieutenant Raymond would have justified the apprehension of any reasonable person, for, in the importance of the moment, he had not deemed it necessary to make any change in the dress in which he had been surprised and driven back. Let the reader figure to himself a remarkably fat, ruddy faced man, of middling age, dressed in a pair of tightly fitting, dread-naught trowsers, and a shell jacket that had once been scarlet, but now, from use and exposure, rather resembled the color of brickdust; boots from which all polish had been taken by the grease employed to render them snow-proof; a brace of pistols thrust into the black waist belt that encircled his huge circumference, and from which depended a sword, whose steel scabbard showed the rust of the rudest bivouac. Let him, moreover, figure to himself that ruddy, carbuncled face, and nearly as ruddy brow, suffused with perspiration, although in a desperately cold winter's night, and the unwashed hands, and mouth, and lips black from the frequent biting of the ends of cartridges, while ever and anon the puffed cheeks, in the effort to procure air and relieve the panting chest, recal the idea of a Bacchus, after one of his most lengthened orgies—let him figure all this, and if he will add short, curling, wiry, damp hair, surmounting a head as round as a turnip, a snubby, red, retroussÉ nose, and light grey eyes; he will have a tolerable idea of the startling figure that thus abruptly made its appearance in the person of Lieutenant Raymond, first among the dancers, and bustlingly thence into the adjoining card-room.

At the moment of his entrance, every eye had been turned upon this strange apparition, while an almost instinctive sense of the cause of his presence pervaded every breast. Indeed it was impossible to behold him arrayed in the bivouac garb in which we have described him, contrasted as it was with the elegant ball dresses of his brother officers and not attribute his presence to some extraordinary motive; and as almost every one in the room was aware of his having been absent on detachment, his mission had been half divined even before he had opened his lips to Colonel St. Julian, for whom, on entering, he had hurriedly inquired.

But when the latter officer was seen soon afterwards to rise from and leave the card-table, and, after communicating hurriedly with the several heads of departments, quit altogether the scene of festivity, there could be no longer a doubt; and, as in all cases of the sort, the danger was magnified, as it flew from lip to lip, even as the tiny snow-ball becomes a mountain by the accession it receives in its rolling course. Suddenly the dance was discontinued, and indeed in time, for the fingers of the non-combatant musicians, sharing in the general nervousness, had already given notice, by numerous falsettos, of their inability to proceed much longer. Bonnets, cloaks, muffs, tippets, shawls, snow-shoes, and all the paraphernalia of a female winter equipment peculiar to the country, were brought unceremoniously in, and thrown en masse upon the deserted benches of the ball-room. Then was there a scramble among the fair dancers, who, having secured their respective property, quitted the house; not, however, without a secret fear, on the part of many, that the first object they should encounter, on sallying forth, would be a corps of American sharpshooters. To the confusion within was added the clamor without, arising from swearing drivers, neighing horses, jingling bells, and jostling sledges. Finally, the only remaining ladies of the party were the D'Egvilles, whose sledge had not yet arrived: with these lingered Captain Molineux, Middlemore, and Henry Grantham, all of whom, having obtained leave of absence for the occasion, had accompanied them from Detroit. The two former, who had just terminated one of the old fashioned cotillions, then peculiar to the Canadas, stood leaning over the chairs of their partners, indulging in no very charitable comments on the unfortunate Raymond, to whose inopportune presence at that unseasonable hour they ascribed a host of most important momentary evils; as, for example, the early breaking up of the pleasantest ball of the season, the loss of an excellent anticipated supper that had been prepared for a later hour, and, although last not least, the necessity it imposed upon them of an immediate return, that bitter cold night, to Detroit. Near the blazing wood fire, at their side, stood Henry Grantham, and Captain St. Clair of the Engineers. The former with his thoughts evidently far away from the passing scene, the latter joining in the criticisms on Raymond.

A few moments afterwards Colonel D'Egville entered the room, now deserted save by the little coterie near the fire-place. Like Lieutenant Raymond's, his dress was more suited to the bivouac than the ball-room, and his countenance otherwise bore traces of fatigue.

His daughters flew to meet him. The officers also grouped around, desirous to hear what tidings he brought of the enemy, to corroborate the statement of Raymond. To the great mortification of the latter, it was now found that he and his little detachment had had all the running to themselves, and that, while they fancied the whole of the American army to be close at their heels, the latter had been so kept in check by the force of Indians, under Colonel D'Egville in person, as to be compelled to retire upon the point whence the original attack had been made. They had not followed the broken English outpost more than a mile, and yet, so convinced of close pursuit had been the latter, that for the space of six leagues they had scarce relaxed in their retreat. The information now brought by Colonel D'Egville was, that the Americans had not advanced a single foot beyond the outpost in question, but, on the contrary, had commenced constructing a stockade and throwing up entrenchments. He added, moreover, that he had just dispatched an express to Sandwich, to General Proctor, communicating the intelligence, and suggesting the propriety of an attack before they could advance farther, and favor any movement on the part of the inhabitants of Detroit. As this counter-movement on our part would require every man that could be spared from the latter fortress, Colonel D'Egville seemed to think that before the officers could reach it, its garrison would be already on the way to join the expedition, which would doubtless be ordered to move from Amherstburg; and as the same impression appeared to exist in the mind of Colonel St. Julian, whom he had only just parted from to proceed in search of his daughters, the latter had taken it upon himself to determine that they should remain where they were until the answer, communicating the final decision of General Proctor, should arrive.

If the young officers were delighted at the idea of escaping the horror of an eighteen miles drive, on one of the bitterest nights of the season, supperless, and at the moment of issuing from a comfortable ball-room, their annoyance at (what they termed) the pusillanimity of Raymond, who had come thus unnecessarily in, to the utter annihilation of their evening's amusement—was in equal proportion. For this, on their way home, they revenged themselves by every sort of persiflage their humor could adapt to the occasion, until in the end they completely succeeded in destroying the good humor of Raymond, who eventually quitted them under feelings of mortified pride, which excited all the generous sympathy of the younger Grantham, while it created in his breast a sentiment of almost wrath against his inconsiderate companions. Even these latter were at length sensible that they had gone too far, and, as their better feelings returned, they sought to assure the offended object of their pleasantry that what they had uttered was merely in jest; but finding he received these disclaimers in moody silence, they renewed their attack, nor discontinued it until they separated for their mutual quarters for the night.

The following dawn broke in, decked with all the sad and sober grey peculiar to an American sky in the depth of winter, and, with the first rising of the almost rayless sun, commenced numerous warlike preparations, that gave promise to the inhabitants of some approaching crisis. The event justified their expectation; the suggestion of Colonel D'Egville had been adopted, and the same express which carried to General Proctor the information of the advance of the enemy, and the expulsion of Lieutenant Raymond from his post, was pushed on to Detroit, with an order for every man who could be spared from that fortress, to be marched without a moment's delay to Malden. At noon the detachment had arrived, and the General making his appearance soon after, the expedition, composed of the strength of the two garrisons, with a few light guns, and a considerable body of Indians, under the Chief Round-head, were pushed rapidly across the lake, and the same night occupied the only road by which the enemy could advance.

It was a picturesque sight to those who lingered on the banks of the Detroit, to watch the movement of that mass of guns, ammunition, cars and sledges, preceding the regular march of the troops, as the whole crossed the firm but rumbling ice, at the head of the now deserted Island of Bois Blanc. Nor was this at all lessened in effect by the wild and irregular movements of the Indians, who, advancing by twos and threes, but more often singly, and bounding nimbly yet tortuously, along the vast white field with which the outline of their swarthy forms contrasted, called up at the outset, the idea of a legion of devils.

It was during one of the coldest mornings in January, that this little army bivouaced on the banks of a small rivulet, distant little more than a league from the position which had been taken up by the Americans. So unexpected and rapid had been the advance of the expedition, that not the slightest suspicion appeared to be entertained by the Americans even of its departure; and from information brought at a late hour by the Indian scouts, who had been dispatched at nightfall to observe their motions, it was gathered that, so far from apprehending or being prepared for an attack, all was quiet in their camp, in which the customary night-fires were then burning. Thus favored by the false security of their enemies, the British force, after partaking of their rude but substantial meal, and preparing their arms, laid themselves down to rest in their accoutrements and great coats; their heads reclining on whatever elevation, however small, presented itself, and their feet half buried in the embers of the fires they had with difficulty kindled on the frozen ground, from which the snow had been removed—all sanguine of success, and all more or less endeavoring to snatch, amid the nipping frost to which their upper persons were exposed, a few hours of sleep prior to the final advance, which was to take place an hour before dawn.

In the midst of the general desolateness of aspect which encompassed all, there were few privations endured by the men that were not equally shared by their officers. A solitary and deserted log hut was the only thing in the shape of a human habitation within the bivouac, and this had been secured as the headquarters of the General and his staff—all besides had no other canopy than the clear starry heavens, or, here and there, the leafless and unsheltering branches of some forest tree—and yet, around one large and blazing fire, which continued to be fed at intervals by masses of half-decayed wood, that, divested of their snow, lay simmering and drying before it, was frequently to be heard the joyous yet suppressed laugh, and piquant sally, as of men whose spirits no temporary hardship or concern for the eventful future could effectually suppress.

During the whole of the march, Raymond had evinced a seriousness of demeanor by no means common to him, and although he had made one of the party in the general bivouac, he had scarcely opened his lips, except to reply to the most direct questions. A renewed attack at first drew from him no comment, although it was evident he felt greatly pained; but when he had finished smoking his cigar, he raised himself, not without difficulty, from the ground, and began with a seriousness of manner that, being unusual, not a little surprised them, "Gentlemen, you have long been pleased to select me as your butt."

"Of course," hastily interrupted Captain Molineux, hazarding his pun, "we naturally select you for what you most resemble."

"Captain Molineux—gentlemen!" resumed Raymond, with greater emphasis.

"He is getting warm on the subject," observed Middlemore. "Have a care, Molineux, that the butt does not churn until in the end it becomes the butter."

"Ha! ha! ha!" vociferated St. Clair, "good, excellent, the best you ever made, Middlemore."

"Gentlemen!" persevered Raymond, in a tone, and with a gesture, of impatience, "this trifling will be deeply regretted by you all to-morrow; I repeat," he pursued, when he found he had at length succeeded in procuring silence, "you have long been pleased to select me as your butt, and while this was confined to my personal appearance, painful as I have sometimes found your humor, I could still endure it; but when I perceive those whom I have looked upon as friends and brothers, casting imputations upon my courage, I may be excused for feeling offended. You have succeeded in wounding my heart, and some of you will regret the hour when you did so. Another, perhaps, would adopt a different course, but I am not disposed to return evil for evil. I wish to believe, that in all your taunts upon this subject you have merely indulged your bantering humor—but not the less have you pained an honest heart. To-morrow will prove that you have grievously wronged me, and I am mistaken if you will not deeply regret it."

So saying, he hurried away across the snow towards a distant fire, which lighted the ruder bivouac of the adjutant and quartermaster, and was there seen to seat himself with the air of one who has composed himself for the night.

"What a silly fellow, to take the thing so seriously!" said Molineux, half vexed at himself, half moved by the reproachful tone of Raymond's address.

"For God's sake, Grantham, call him back. Tell him we are ready to make any—every atonement for our offence," urged St. Clair.

"And I will promise never to utter another pun at his expense as long as I live," added Middlemore.

But before Henry Grantham, who had been a pained and silent witness of the scene, and who had already risen with a view to follow the wounded Raymond, could take a single step on his mission of peace, the low roll of the drum, summoning to fall in, warned them that the hour of action had already arrived, and each, quitting his fire, hastened to the more immediate and pressing duties of assembling his men, and carefully examining into the state of their appointments.

In ten minutes from the beating of the reveillÉ—considerably shorn of its wonted proportions, as the occasion demanded—the bivouac had been abandoned, and the little army again upon their march. What remained to be traversed of the space that separated them from the enemy, was an alternation of plain and open forest, but so completely in juxtaposition, that the head of the column had time to clear one wood and enter a second before its rear could disengage itself from the first. The effect of this, by the dim and peculiar light reflected from the snow across which they moved, was picturesque in the extreme, nor was the interest diminished by the utter silence that had pervaded every part of the little army, the measured tramp of whose march, mingled with the hollow and unavoidable rumbling of the light guns, being the only sounds to be heard amid that mass of living matter. The Indians, with the exception of a party of scouts, had been the last to quit their rude encampment, and as they now, in their eagerness to get to the front, glided stealthily by in the deep snows on either side of the more beaten track by which the troops advanced, and utterly without sound in their foot-fall they might rather have been compared to spirits of the wilds, than to human beings.

The regiment having been told off into divisions, it so happened that Raymond and Henry Grantham, although belonging to different companies, now found themselves near each other. The latter had been most anxious to approach his really good-hearted companion, with a view to soothe his wounded feelings, and to convey, in the fullest and most convincing terms, the utter disclaimer of his inconsiderate brother officers, to reflect seriously on his conduct in the recent retreat—or, indeed, to intend their observations for anything beyond a mere pleasantry. As, however, the strictest order had been commanded to be observed in the march, and Raymond and he happened to be at opposite extremities of the division, this had been for some time impracticable. A temporary halt having occurred, just as the head of the column came within sight of the enemy's fires, Grantham quitted his station on the flank, and hastened to the head of his division, where he found Raymond with his arms folded across his chest, and apparently absorbed in deep thought. He tapped him lightly on the shoulder, and inquired in a tone of much kindness the subject of his musing.

Touched by the manner in which he was addressed, Raymond dropped his arms and grasping the hand of the youth, observed in his usual voice; "Ah, is it you Henry—Egad, my dear boy, I was just thinking of you—and how very kind you have always been; never quizzing me as those thoughtless fellows have done—and certainly never insinuating anything against my courage—that was too bad, Henry, too bad, I could have forgiven anything but that."

"Nay, nay, Raymond," answered his companion, soothingly; "believe me, neither Molineux, nor Middlemore, nor St. Clair meant anything beyond a jest. I can assure you they did not, for when you quitted us they asked me to go in search of you, but the assembly then commencing to beat, I was compelled to hasten to my company, nor have I had an opportunity of seeing you until now."

"Very well, Henry, I forgive them, for it is not in my nature to keep anger long; but tell them that they should not wantonly wound the feelings of an unoffending comrade. As I told them, they may regret their unkindness to me before another sun has set. If so, I wish them no other punishment."

"What mean you, my dear Raymond?"

"Egad! I scarcely know myself, but something tells me very forcibly my hour is come."

"Nonsense, this is but the effect of the depression, produced by fatigue and over excitement, added to the recent annoyance of your feelings."

"Whatever it proceed from, I had made up my mind to it before we set out. Henry, my kind good Henry, I have neither friend nor relative on earth—no one to inherit the little property I possess. In the event of my falling, you will find the key of my desk in the breast pocket of my coat. A paper in that desk appoints you my executor. Will you accept the trust?"

"Most sacredly, Raymond, will I fulfil every instruction it contains should I myself survive; but I cannot, will not, bring myself to anticipate your fall."

"Move on, move on," passed quickly in a whisper from front to rear of the column.

"God bless you, Henry," exclaimed Raymond, again pressing the hand of the youth—"remember the key."

"We shall talk of that to-night," was the light reply. "Meanwhile, dear Raymond, God bless you," and again Grantham fell back to his place in the rear of the division.

Five minutes later, and the troops were finally brought up in front of the enemy. A long line of fires marked the extent of the encampment, from which even then, the "all's well" of the sentinels could be occasionally heard. Except these, all profoundly slept, nor was there anything to indicate they had the slightest suspicion of an enemy being within twenty miles of them.

"What glorious cannon work we shall have presently," whispered Villiers to Molineux, as they were brought together by their stations at the adjacent extremities of their respective division. "Only mark how the fellows sleep."

"The devil take the cannon," muttered Villiers, "the bayonet for me, but you are right, for see, there go the guns to the front—hark there is a shot; the sentinels have discovered us at last; and now they are starting from before their fires, and hastening to snatch their arms."

Whist, whist, whist, flew three balls successively between their heads.

"Ha, here they begin to talk to us in earnest, and now to our duty."

The next moment all was roar, and bustle, and confusion, and death.

The sun was in the meridian; all sounds of combat had ceased. From the field, in which the troops had commenced the action, numerous sledges were seen departing, laden with the dead—the wounded having previously been sent off. One of these sledges remained stationary at some distance within the line, where the ravages of death were marked by pools of blood upon the snow, and at this point were grouped several individuals, assembled round a body which was about to be conveyed away.

"By Heavens, I would give the world never to have said an unkind word to him," observed one, whose arm suspended from a sling, attested he had not come scatheless out of the action. It was St. Clair, whose great ambition it had always been to have his name borne among the list of wounded—provided there were no broken bones in the question.

"As brave as he was honest-hearted," added a second, "you say, Grantham, that he forgave us all our nonsense."

"He did, Molineux. He declared he could not bear resentment against you long. But still, I fear, he could not so easily forget. He observed to me, jestingly, just before deploying into line, that he felt his time was come, but there can be no doubt, from what we all witnessed, that he was determined from the outset to court his death."

Captain Molineux turned away, apparently much affected—Middlemore spoke not, but it was evident he also was deeply pained. Each seemed to feel that he had been in some degree accessory to the catastrophe, but the past could not be recalled. The body, covered with blood, exuding from several wounds, was now placed on the sledge which was drawn off to join several others just departed, and the lingering officers hastened to overtake their several companies.

When the action was at the hottest, one of the small guns in front (all of which had been fearfully exposed), was left without a single artilleryman. Availing themselves of this circumstance, the enemy, who were unprovided with artillery of any description, made a movement as if to possess themselves of, and turn it against the attacking force, then closing rapidly to dispute the possession of the breast work which covered their riflemen. Colonel St. Julian seeing this movement, called out for volunteers to rescue the gun from its perilous situation. Scarcely had the words passed his lips when an individual moved forward from the line, in the direction indicated. It was Lieutenant Raymond—Exposed to the fire, both of friends and foes, the unfortunate officer advanced calmly and unconcernedly, in the presence of the whole line, and before the Americans could succeed in even crossing their defences, had seized the gun by the drag rope, and withdrawn it under cover of the English fire. But this gallant act of self-devotedness, was not without its terrible price. Pierced by many balls, which the American riflemen had immediately directed at him, he fell dying within ten feet of the British line, brandishing his sword and faintly shouting a "huzza," that was answered by his companions with the fierce spirit of men stung to new exertion, and determined to avenge his fall.

Thus perished the fat, the plain, the carbuncled, but really gallant-hearted Raymond—whose intrinsic worth was never estimated until he had ceased to exist. His fall, and all connected therewith, forms a sort of episode in our story, yet is it one not altogether without its moral. A private monument, on which was inscribed all that may soothe and flatter after death, was erected to his memory by those very officers whose persiflage, attacking in this instance even his honor as a soldier, had driven him to seek the fate he found. Of this there could be no question; for, brave as he unquestionably was, Raymond would not have acted as if courting death throughout, had he not fully made up his mind either to gain great distinction or to die under the eyes of those who had, he conceived, so greatly injured him. It is but justice to add that, for three days from his death, Middlemore did not utter a single pun, neither did St. Clair or Molineux indulge in a satirical observation.