Rolf was conspicuous among them for
his tall figure, but there was a Vermont boy named Seymour, who
had the reputation of being the swiftest runner of them all.
They had two duties laid before them: first, to find whether
Prevost's army was really retreating; second, what of the
regiment he sent up the Saranac to perform the flank movement.
Each was given the country he knew best. Some went westerly, some
followed up the river. Rolf, Seymour, and Fiske, another
Vermonter, skimmed out of Plattsburg harbour in the dusk, rounded
Cumberland Bend, and at nine o'clock landed at Point au Roche, at
the north side of Treadwell's Bay.
Here they hid the canoe and agreeing to meet again at midnight,
set off in three different westerly directions to strike the
highway at different points. Seymour, as the fast racer, was
given the northmost route; Rolf took the middle. Their signals
were arranged -- in the woods the barred-owl cry, by the water
the loon; and they parted.
The woods seemed very solemn to Rolf that historic September
night, as he strode along at speed, stopping now and again when
he thought he heard some signal, and opened wide his mouth to
relieve his ear-drums of the heart-beat or to still the rushing
of his breath.
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