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30	THE BOWER BY YON BURNSIDE	And ever as he gazed at her the Earl of Douglas grew more and more in love with the Lady Sybilla. There was no covert side through which a burn plunged downward from the steep side of Moorfoot, but they wandered it alone together. Early and late they might have been met, he with his face turned upon her, and she looking straight forward with the same inscrutable calm. And all who saw left them alone as they took their way to gather flowers like children, or, as it might be, stood still and silent like a pair of lovers under the evening star. For in these summer days and nights bloomed untiringly the brief passion-flower of William Douglas's life. Meanwhile Sholto gritted his teeth in impotent rage, but had nothing to do save change guard and keep a wary eye upon the Chancellor, who went about rubbing his hands and glancing sidelong as the copses closed behind the Earl of Douglas and the Lady Sybilla. As for the ambassador of France, he was, as was usual with him, much occupied in his own chamber with his servants Poitou and Henriet, and save when dinner was served in hall appeared little at the festivities. Sholto wished at times for the presence of his father; but at others, when he saw William Douglas and Sybilla return with a light on their faces, and their eyes large and vague, he bethought him of Maud Lindesay, and was glad that, for a little at least, the sun of love should shine upon his lord. It was in the gracious fulness of the early autumn, when the sheaves were set up in many a park and little warded holt about the Moorfoot braes, that William Douglas and Sybilla de Thouars stood together upon a crest of hill, crowned with dwarf birch and thick foliaged alder--a place in the retirement of whose sylvan bower they had already spent many tranced hours. The Lady Sybilla sat down on a worn grey rock which thrust itself through the green turf. William Douglas stood beside her pulling a blade of bracken to pieces. The girl had been wearing a broad flat cap of velvet, which in the coolness of the twilight she had removed and now swung gently to and fro in her hand as she looked to the north, where small as a toy and backed by the orange glow of sunset, the Castle of Edinburgh could be seen black upon its wind-swept ridge. The girl was speaking slowly and softly. "Nay, Earl Douglas," she said, "marriage must not be named to Sybilla de Thouars, certainly never by an Earl of Douglas and Duke of Touraine. He must wed for riches and fair provinces. His house is regal already. He is better born than the King, more powerful also. The daughter of a Breton squire, of a forlorn and deserted mother, the kinswoman of Gilles de Retz of Machecoul and Champtocé, is not for him." "A Douglas makes many sacrifices," said the young man with earnestness; "but this is not demanded of him. Four generations of us have wedded for power. It is surely time that one did so for love." The girl reached him her hand, saying softly: "Ah, William, would that it had been so. Too late I begin to think on those things which might have been, had Sybilla de Thouars been born under a more fortunate star. As it is I can only go on--a terror to myself and a bane to others." The young man, absorbed in his own thoughts, did not hear her words. "The world itself were little to give in order that in exchange I might possess you," he answered. The girl laughed a strange laugh, and drew back her hand from his. "Possess me, well--but marry me--no. Honest men and honourable like Earl Douglas do not wed with the niece of Gilles de Retz. I had thought my heart within me to be as flint in the chalk, yet now I pray you on my knees to leave me. Take your thirty lances and your young brother and ride home. Then, safe in your island fortress of Thrieve, blot out of your heart all memory that ever you found pleasure in a creature so miserable as Sybilla de Thouars." "But," said the young Earl, passionately, "tell me why so, my lady. I do not understand. What obstacle can there be? You tell me that you love me, that you are not betrothed. Your kinsman is an honourable man, a marshal and an ambassador of France, a cousin of the Duke of Brittany, a reigning sovereign. Moreover, am not I the Douglas? I am responsible to no man. William Douglas may wed whom he will--king's daughter or beggar wench. Why should he not join with the honourable daughter of an honourable house, and the one woman he has ever loved?" The girl let her velvet cap fall on the ground, and sank her face between her hands. Her whole body was shaken with emotion. "Go--go," she cried, starting to her feet and standing before him, "call out your lances and ride home this night. Never look more upon the face of such a thing as Sybilla de Thouars. I bid you! I warn you! I command you! I thought I had been of stone, but now when I see you, and hear your words, I cannot do that which is laid upon me to do." William of Douglas smiled. "I cannot go," he said simply, "I love you. Moreover, I will not go--I am Earl of Douglas." The girl clasped her hands helplessly. "Not if I tell you that I have deceived you, led you on?" she said. "Not if I swear that I am the slave of a power so terrible that there are no words in any language to tell the least of the things I have suffered?" The Earl shook his head. The girl suddenly stamped her foot in anger. "Go--go, I tell you," she cried; "stay not a day in this accursed place, wherein no true word is spoken and no loyal deed done, save those which come forth from your own true heart." "Nay," said William Douglas, with his eyes on hers, "it is too late, Sybil. I have kissed the red of your lips. Your head hath lain on my breast. My whole soul is yours. I cannot now go back, even if I would. The boy I have been, I can be no more for ever." The girl rose from the stone on which she had been sitting. There was a new smile in her eyes. She held out her hands to the youth who stood so erect and proud before her. "Well, at the worst, William Douglas," she said, "you may never live to wear a white head, but at least you shall touch the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, taste the fruitage and smell the blossoms thereof more than a hundred greybeards. I had not thought that earth held anywhere such a man, or that aught but blackness and darkness remained this side of hell for one so desolate as I. I have bid you leave me. I have told you that which, were it known, would cost me my life. But since you will not go,--since you are strong enough to stand unblenching in the face of doom,--you shall not lose all without a price." She opened her arms wide, and her eyes were glorious. "I love you," she said, her lips thrilling towards him, "I love you, love you, as I never thought to love any man upon this earth."	{ "id": "17733" }
31	THE GABERLUNZIE MAN	The next morning the Chancellor came down early from his chamber, and finding Earl Douglas already waiting in the courtyard, he rubbed his hands and called out cheerfully: "We shall be more lonely to-day, but perhaps even more gay. For there are many things men delight in which even the fairest ladies care not for, fearing mayhap some invasion of their dominions." "What mean you, my Lord Chancellor?" said the Douglas to his host, eagerly scanning the upper windows meanwhile. "I mean," said the Chancellor, fawningly, "that his Excellency, the ambassador of France, hath ridden away under cloud of night, and hath taken his fair ward with him." The Earl turned pale and stood glowering at the obsequious Chancellor as if unable to comprehend the purport of his words. At last he commanded himself sufficiently to speak. "Was this resolution sudden, or did the Lady Sybilla know of it yesternight?" "Nay, of a surety it was quite sudden," replied the Chancellor. "A message arrived from the Queen Mother to the Marshal de Retz requesting an immediate meeting on business of state, whereupon I offered my Castle of Edinburgh for the purpose as being more convenient than Stirling. So I doubt not that they are all met there, the young King being of the party. It is, indeed, a quaint falling out, for of late, as you may have heard, the Tutor and the Queen have scarce been of the number of my intimates." The Earl of Douglas appeared strangely disturbed. He paid no further attention to his host, but strode to and fro in the courtyard with his thumbs in his belt, in an attitude of the deepest meditation. The Chancellor watched him from under his eyebrows with alternate apprehension and satisfaction, like a timid hunter who sees the lion half in and half out of the snare. "I have a letter for you, my Lord Douglas," he said, after a long pause. "Ah," cried Douglas, with obvious relief, "why did you not tell me so at first. Pray give it me." "I knew not whether it might afford you pleasure or no," answered the Chancellor. "Give it me!" cried Douglas, imperiously, as though he spoke to an underling. Sir William Crichton drew a square parcel from beneath his long-furred gown, and handed it to William Douglas, who, without stepping back, instantly broke the seal. "Pshaw," cried he, contemptuously, "it is from the Queen Mother and Alexander Livingston!" He thought it had been from another, and his disappointment was written clear upon his face. "Even so," said the Chancellor, suavely; "it was delivered by the same servant who brought the message which called away the ambassador and his companion." The Earl read it from beginning to end. After the customary greetings and good wishes the letter ran as follows: "The King greatly desires to see his noble cousin of Douglas at the castle of Edinburgh, presently put at his Majesty's disposal by the High Chancellor of Scotland. Here in this place are now assembled all the men who desire the peace and assured prosperity of the realm, saving the greatest of all, my Lord and kinsman of Douglas. The King sends affectionate greeting to his cousin, and desires that he also may come thither, that the ambassador of France may carry back to his master a favourable report of the unity and kindly governance of the kingdom during his minority." The Chancellor watched the Earl as he read this letter. To one more suspicious than William Douglas it would have been clear that he was himself perfectly acquainted with the contents. "I am bidden meet the King at the Castle of Edinburgh," said Douglas; "I will set out at once." "Nay, my lord," said Crichton, "not this day, at least. Stay and hunt the stag on the braes of Borthwick. My huntsmen have marked down a swift and noble buck. To-morrow to Edinburgh an you will!" "I thank you, Sir William," the Douglas answered, curtly enough; "but the command is peremptory. I must ride to Edinburgh this very day." "I pray you remember that Edinburgh is a turbulent city and little inclined to love your great house. Is it, think you, wise to go thither with so small a retinue?" The Earl waved his hand carelessly. "I am not afraid," he said; "besides, what harm can befall when I lodge in the castle of the Lord Chancellor of Scotland?" Crichton bowed very low. "What harm, indeed?" he said; "I did but advise your lordship to bethink himself. I am an old man, pray remember--fast growing feeble and naturally inclined to overmuch caution. But the blood flows hot through the veins of eighteen." Sholto, who knew nothing of these happenings, had just finished exercising his men on the smooth green in front of the Castle of Crichton, and had dismissed them, when a gaberlunzie or privileged beggar, a long lank rascal with a mat of tangled hair, and clad in a cast-off leathern suit which erstwhile some knight had worn under his mail, leaped suddenly from the shelter of a hedge. Instinctively Sholto laid his hand on his dagger. "Nay," snuffled the fellow, "I come peaceably. As you love your lord hasten to give him this letter. And, above all, let not the Crichton see you." He placed a small square scrap of parchment in Sholto's hand. It was sealed in black wax with a serpent's head, and from the condition of the outside had evidently been in places both greasy and grimy. Sholto put it in his leathern pouch wherein he was used to keep the hone for sharpening his arrows, and bestowed a silver groat upon the beggar. "Thy master's life is surely worth more than a groat," said the man. "I warrant you have been well enough paid already," said Sholto, "that is, if this be not a deceit. But here is a shilling. On your head be it, if you are playing with Sholto MacKim!" So saying the captain of the guard strode within. He had already acquired the carriage and consequence of a veteran old in the wars. His master was still pacing up and down the courtyard, deep in meditation. Sholto saluted the young Earl and asked permission to speak a word with him. "Speak on, Sholto--well do you know that at all times you may say what you will to me." "But this I desire to keep from prying eyes. My lord, there is a letter in my wallet which was given me even now by a gaberlunzie man. He declares that it concerns your life. I pray you take out my hone stone as if to look at it, and with it the letter." The Earl nodded, as if Sholto had been making a report to him. Then he went nearer and began to finger his squire's accoutrements, finally opening his belt pouch and taking out the stone that was therein. "Where gat you this hone!" he said, holding it to the light; "it looks not the right blue for a Water-of-Ayr stone." Sholto answered that it came from the Parton Hills, and, as the Earl replaced it, he possessed himself of the square letter and thrust it into the bosom of his doublet. As soon as William Douglas was alone, he broke the seal and tore open the parchment. It was written in a delicate foreign script, the characters fine and small: "My lord, do not, I beseech you, come to Edinburgh or think of me more. Last night my Lord of Retz spied upon us and this morning he hath carried me off. Wherever you are when you receive this, turn instantly and ride with all speed to one of your strong castles. As you love me, go! We can never hope to see one another again. Forget an unfortunate girl who can never forget you." There was no signature saving the impression of the joined serpents' heads, which he remembered as the signet of the ring he had found and given back to her on the day of the tournament. "I will never give her up. I must see her," cried the Earl of Douglas, "and this very day. Aye, and though I were to die for it on the morrow, see her I will!"	{ "id": "17733" }
32	"EDINBURGH CASTLE, TOWER, AND TOWN"	It was with an anxious heart that Sholto rode out behind his master over the bald northerly slopes of the Moorfoots. For a long time David Douglas kept close to his brother, so that the captain of the guard could speak no private word. For, though he knew that nothing was to be gained by remonstrance, Sholto was resolved that he would not let his reckless master run unwarned into danger so deadly and certain. He rode up, therefore, and craved permission to speak to the Earl, seizing an occasion when David had fallen a little behind. "Thou art a true son of Malise MacKim, whatever thy mother may aver," cried the Earl. "I'll wager a gold angel thou art going to say something shrewdly unpleasant. That great lurdain, thy father, never asks permission to speak save when he has stilettos rankling where his honest tongue should be." "My lord," said Sholto, "bear a word from one who loves you. Go not into this town of Edinburgh. Or at least wait till you can ride thither with three thousand lances as did your father, and his father before him." The Earl laughed merrily and clapped his young knight on the shoulder. "Did you not tell me the same ere we came to the Castle of Crichton, and lo! there we were ten days in the place and not a man-at-arms within miles except your own Galloway varlets! Sholto, my lad, we might have sacked the castle, rolled all the platters down the slopes into the Tyne, and sent the cooks trundling after them, for all that any one could have done to stop us. Yet here are we riding forth, feathers in our bonnets, swords by our sides, panged full of the Chancellor's good meat and drink, and at once, as soon as we are gone, Sholto MacKim begins the same old discontented corbie's croak!" "But, my lord, 'tis a different matter yonder. The Castle of Edinburgh is a strong place with many courts and doors--a hostile city round about, not a solitary castle like Crichton. They may separate you from us, and we may be able neither to save you nor yet to die with you, if the worst comes to the worst." "I may inform you as well soon as syne, you waste your breath, Sholto," said Earl Douglas, "and it ill becomes a young knight, let me tell you, to be so chicken-hearted. The next time I will leave you at home to hem linen for the bed-sheets. Malise is a licensed croaker, but I thought better of you, Master Sholto MacKim!" The captain of the Earl's guard looked on the ground and his heart was distressed within him. Yet, in spite of the raillery of the Douglas, he resolved to make one more effort. "My lord," he said, "you know not the full hatred of these men against your house. What other object save the destruction of the Douglas can have drawn together foes so deadly as Crichton and Livingston? At least, my lord, if you are set on risking your own life, send back one of us with your brother David!" Then cried out David Douglas, who had joined them during the converse, against so monstrous a proposal. "I will not go back in any case," said the lad; "William has the earldom and the titles. I may at least be allowed part of the fun. Sholto, if William dies without heirs and I become Earl, my first act will be to hang you on the dule tree with a raven on either side, for a slow-bellied knave and prophet of evil!" The Earl looked at his brother and seemed to hesitate. "There is something in what you say, Sholto." "My lord, if the blow fall, let not your line be wholly cut off. I pray you let five good lads ride straight for Douglasdale with David in the midst--" "Sholto," cried the boy, "I will not go back, nor be a palterer, all because you are afraid for your own skin!" "My place is with my master," said Sholto, curtly, and the boy looked ashamed for a moment; but he soon recovered himself and returned to the charge. "Well, then, 'tis because you want to see Maud Lindesay that you are so set on returning. I saw you kiss Maud's hand in the dark of the stairs. Aha! Master Sholto, what say you now?" "Hold your tongue, David," cried his brother; "you might have seen him kiss yet more pleasantly, and yet do no harm. But, after all, you and I are Douglases and our star is in the zenith. We will fall together, if fall we must. Not a word more about it. David, I will race you to yonder dovecot for a golden lion." "Done with you!" cried his brother, joyously, and in an instant spurs were into the flanks of their horses, and the young men flew thundering over the green turf, riding swiftly into the golden haze from which rose ever higher and higher the dark towers of the Castle of Edinburgh. Past grey peel and wind-swept fortalice the young Lords of Douglas rode that autumn day, gaily as to a wedding, on their way to place themselves in the power of their house's enemies. The sea plain pursued them, flecked green and purple on their right hand. Little ships floated on the smooth surface of the firth, hardly larger in size than the boats of fisher folk, yet ships withal which had adventured into far seas and brought back rich produce into the barren lands of the Scots. At last they entered the demesne of Holyrood, and saw the deer crouching and basking about the copses or scampering over the broomy knowes of the Nether Hill. As they came near to the Canongate Port, they saw a gallant band gaily dressed coming forth to meet them, and the Earl's eye brightened as it caught in the midst the glint of ladies' attiring. "See, Sholto," he cried, "and repent! Yonder is not a single lance shining, and you cannot turn your grumbling head but you will see nigh two score, with a stout Douglas heart bumping under each." "Ah," said Sholto, without joy or conviction, "but we are neither in nor yet out of this weary town of Edinburgh!" As the cavalcade approached, there came a boy on a pony at speed towards them. He carried a switch in his hand, and with it he urged his little beast to still greater endeavours. "The King!" cried David, cheerfully. "I heard he was a sturdy brat enough!" And in another moment the two young men of the dominant house were taking off their bonnets to the boy who, in name at least, was their sovereign and overlord. "Hurrah!" cried the lad, as he circled about them, reckless and irresponsible as a sea-gull, "I am so glad, so very glad you have come. I like you because you are so bold and young. I have none about me like you. You will teach me to ride a tourney. I have been hearing all about yours at Thrieve from the Lady Sybilla. I wish you had asked me. But now we shall be friends, and I will come and stay long months with you all together--that is, if my mother will let me." All this the young King shouted as he ranged alongside of the two brothers, and rode with them towards the city. King James II. of Scotland was at this time an open-hearted boy, with no evident mark of the treachery and jealous fury which afterwards distinguished him as a man. The schooling of Livingston, his tutor, had not yet perverted his mind (as it did too soon afterwards), and he welcomed the young Douglases as the embodiment of all that was great and knightly, noble and gallant, in his kingdom. "Yesterday," he began, as soon as he had subdued the ardour of his frolicsome little steed to a steadier gait, varied only by an occasional curvet, "yesterday I was made to read in the Chronicles of the Kings of Scotland, and lo, it was the Douglas did this and the Douglas said that, till I cried out upon Master Kennedy, 'Enough of Douglases--I am a Stewart. Read me of the Stewarts.' Then gave Master Kennedy a look as when he laughs in his sleeve, and shook his head. 'This book concerneth battles,' said he, 'and not gear, plenishing, and tocher. The Douglas won for King Robert his crown, the Stewart only married his daughter--though that, if all tales be true, was the braver deed!' Now that was no reverent speech to me that am a Stewart, nor yet very gallant to my great-grandmother, was it, Earl Douglas?" "It was no fine courtier's flattery, at any rate," said the Douglas, his eyes wandering hither and thither across the cavalcade which they were now meeting, in search of the graceful figure and darkly splendid head of the girl he loved. The Lady Sybilla was not there. "They have secluded her," he muttered, in sharp jealous anger; "'tis all her kinsman's fault. He hath the marks of a traitor and worse. But they shall not spite nor flout the Douglas." So with a countenance grave and unresponsive he saluted Livingston the tutor, who came forth to meet him. The Chancellor was expected immediately, for he had ridden in more rapidly by the hill way in order that he might welcome his notable guests to the metropolitan residence of the Kings of Scotland. The Castle of Edinburgh was at that time in the fulness of its strength and power. The first James had greatly enlarged and strengthened its works defensive. He had added thirty feet to the height of David's Tower, which now served as a watch-station over all the rock, and in his last days he had begun to build the great hall which the Chancellor had but recently finished. It was here that presently the feast was set. The banquet-hall ran the width of the keep, and the raised dais in the centre was large enough to seat the whole higher baronage of Scotland, among whom (as the Earl of Douglas thought with some scorn) neither of his entertainers, Crichton and Livingston, had any right to place themselves. But the question where the Lady Sybilla was bestowed soon occupied the Douglas more than any thought of his own safety or of the loyalty of his entertainers. Sybilla, however, was neither in the courtly cavalcade which met them at the entrance of the park, nor yet among the more numerous ladies who stood at the castle yett to welcome to Edinburgh the noble and handsome young lords of the South. Douglas therefore concluded that de Retz, discovering some part of the love that was between them, or mayhap hearing of it from some spy or other at Crichton Castle, had secluded his sweetheart. He loosened his hand on the rein to lay it on the sword-hilt, as he thought of this cruelty to a maid so pure and fair. Sholto kept his company very close behind him as they rode up the High-street, a gloomy defile of tall houses dotted from topmost window to pavement with the heads of chattering goodwives, and the flutter of household clothing hung out to dry. At the first defences of the castle Douglas called Sholto and said: "Your fellows are to be lodged here on the Castle Hill. The Chancellor hath sent word that there is no room in the castle itself. For the tutor's men and King's men have already filled it to the brim." These tidings agonised Sholto more than ever. "My lord," he said, in a tortured whisper, "turn about your rein and we will cut our way out even yet. Do you not see that the devils would separate you from all who love you? And I shall be blamed for this in Galloway. At least, let me accompany you with half a dozen men." "Nay," said the Earl, "such suspicion were a poor return for the Chancellor's putting himself in our hands all the days we spent with him at his Castle of Crichton. To your lodgings, Sholto, and give God thanks if there be therein a pretty maid or a dame complaisant, according to the wont of young squires and men-at-arms." In this fashion rode the Earl of Douglas to take his first dinner in the Castle of Edinburgh. And Sholto MacKim went behind him, no man saying him nay. For his master had eyes only for one face, and that he could not see. "But I shall find her yet," he said over and over in his heart. It was but a boyish heart, and simple, too; but all so brave and high that the gallantest and greatest gentleman in the world had not one like to it for loyalty and courage.	{ "id": "17733" }
33	THE BLACK BULL'S HEAD	The banqueting-hall of Edinburgh Castle, but lately out of artificers' hands, was a noble oblong chamber reaching from side to side of the south-looking keep, begun by James I. It was decorated in the French manner with oak ceilings and panellings, all bossed and cornered with massive silver-gilt mouldings. Save in the ordering of the repast itself there was a marked absence of ostentation. Only a soldier or two could be seen, mostly on guard at the outer gates, and Sholto, who till now had been uneasy and fearful for his master, became gradually more reassured when he saw with what care every want of the Earl and his brother was attended to, and if possible even forestalled. The young King was in jubilant spirits, and could scarcely be persuaded to let the brothers Douglas remain a moment alone. He was resolved, he said, to have his bed brought into their chamber that he might talk to them all night of tourneys and noble deeds of arms. Never had he met with any whom he loved so much, and on their part the young Lords of Douglas became boys again, in this atmosphere of frank and boyish admiration. It was a state banquet to which they sat down. That is, there was no hungry crowd of hangers-on clustered below the salt. To each gentleman was allotted a silver trenchard for his own use, instead of one betwixt two as was the custom. The service was ordered in the French manner, and there was manifest through all a quiet observance and good taste which won upon the Earl of Douglas. Nevertheless, his eyes still continued to range this way and that through the castle, scanning each tower, glancing up at every balcony and archway, in search of the Lady Sybilla. In the banquet-hall the little King sat on his high chair in the midst, with the brothers of Douglas one on either side of him. He spoke loudly and confidently after the manner of a pampered boy of high spirits. "I will soon come and visit you in return at the Castle of Thrieve. The Lady Sybilla hath told me how strong it is and how splendid are the tourneys there, as grand, she swears, as those of France." "The Lady Sybilla is peradventure gone to her own land?" ventured Douglas, not wishing to ask a more direct question. He spoke freely, however, on all other subjects with the King, laughing and talking mostly with him, and finding little to say to the tutor Livingston or the Chancellor, who, either from humility or from fear, had taken care to interpose half a dozen knights between himself and his late guests. "Nay," cried the young King, looking querulously at his tutor, "but, indeed, I wot not what they have done with my pretty gossip, Sybilla; I have not seen her for three weeks, save for a moment this morning. And before she went away she promised to teach me to dance a coranto in the French manner, and the trick of the handkerchief to hide a dagger in the hand." As the Earl listened to the boy's prattle, he became more and more convinced that the Marshal de Retz, having in some way discovered their affection for each other, had removed Sybilla out of his reach. Her letter, indeed, showed clearly that she was in fear of ill-treatment both for himself and for her. The banquet passed with courtesies much more elaborate than was usual in Scotland, but which indicated the great respect in which the Douglases were held. Between each course a servant clad in the royal colours presented a golden salver filled with clear water for the guests to wash their hands. Through the interstices of the ceiling strains of music filtered down from musicians hidden somewhere above, which sounded curiously soothing and far away. The Chancellor bowed and drank every few minutes to the health of the Earl and his brother across the board, while the tutor sat smiling upon all with the polish of a professional courtier. In his high seat at the table end the little King chatted incessantly of the times when he could do as he pleased, and when he and his cousin of Douglas would ride together to battle and tourney, or feast together in hall. "Be sure, then, I will not keep all these grey-beard sorners about me," he said, lowering his voice cautiously; "I will only have young gallant men like you and David there. But what comes here?" There was a stir among the servitors at the upper end of the room. Sholto, who stood behind his master's chair, heard the skirl of the war-pipes approach nearer. It grew louder, more insistent, finally almost oppressive. The doors at either end were filled with armed men. They filed silently into the hall in dark armour, all carrying shining Lochaber axes. Douglas leaned back in his chair, and looked nonchalantly on like a spectator of a pageant. He continued to talk to the King easily and calmly, as if he were in his own Castle of Thrieve. But Sholto saw the white and ghastly look on the face of the Chancellor, and noted his hands nervously grip the table. He observed him also lean across and confer with Livingston, who nodded like one that agrees that the moment of action has come. At the upper end of the hall were wide folding doors which till now had been shut. These were opened swiftly, either half falling back to the wall. And through the archway came two servitors in black habits, carrying between them on a huge platter of silver a black bull's head, ghastly and ominous even in death, with staring eyeballs and matted frontlet of ensanguined hair. "Treachery!" instantly cried Sholto, and ere the men could approach he had drawn his sword and stood ready to do battle for his lord. For throughout all Scotland a bull's head served at table is the symbol of death. The Earl did not move or speak. He watched the progress of the men in black, who staggered under their heavy burden. David also had risen to his feet with his hand on his sword, but William Douglas sat still. Alarm, wonder, and anxiety chased each other across the face of the young King. "What is this, Chancellor--why is the room filled with armed men?" he cried. But Crichton had withdrawn himself behind the partisans of his soldiers, and down the long table there was not a man but had risen and bared his sword. Every eye was turned upon the young Earl. A score of men-at-arms came forward to seize him. "Stand back on your lives!" cried Sholto, sweeping his blade about him to keep a space clear about his youthful master. But still the Earl William sat calm and unmoved, though all others had risen to their feet and held arms in their hands. "What means this mumming?" he said, high and clear. "If a mystery is to be played, surely it were better to put it off till after dinner." Then through the open doorway came a voice piercing and reedy. "The play is played indeed, William of Douglas, and the lion is now safe in the power of the dogs. How like you our kennel, most mighty lion?" It was the voice of the Chancellor Crichton. The young King came running from his place and threw his arms about the Earl's neck. "I am the King," he cried; "not one of you shall touch or hurt my cousin Douglas!" "Stand back, James," said the tutor Livingston; "the Douglas is a traitor, and you shall never reign while he rules. He and his brother must be tried for treason. They have claimed the King's throne, and usurped his authority." Sholto MacKim turned about. In all that threatening array of armed men no friendly eye met his, and none of all he had trusted drew a blade for the Douglas. Sholto stood calculating the chances. To die like a man was easy, but how to die to some purpose seemed more difficult. He saw the King with his arm about the neck of William Douglas, who remained quietly in his place with a pale but assured countenance. It was Sholto's only chance. With his left hand he seized the young King by the collar of his doublet, and set the point of his sword to his back between the shoulder-blades. "Now," he cried, "let a man lay hand on my Lord Douglas and I will slay the King!" At this there was great consternation, and but for fear of Sholto's keeping his word half a score would have rushed forward to the assistance of the boy. The scream of a woman from some concealed portal showed that the Queen Mother was waiting to witness the downfall of the mighty house which, as she had been taught, alone threatened her boy's throne. Sholto's arm was already drawn back for the thrust, when the voice of the Earl of Douglas was heard. He had risen to his feet, and now stood easy and careless as ever, with his thumb in the blue silken sash which girt his waist. "Sholto," he said calmly, "you forget your place. Let the King go instantly, and ask his Majesty's pardon. Set your sword again in its sheath. I am your lord. I dubbed you knight. Do as I command you." Most unwillingly Sholto did as he was bidden, and the King, instead of withdrawing, placed himself still closer to William of Douglas. "And now," cried the Earl, facing the array of armed men who thronged the banquet-hall, "what would ye with the Douglas? Do ye mean my death, as by the Bull's Head here on the table ye would have me believe?" "For black treason do we apprehend you, Earl of Douglas," creaked the voice of the Chancellor, still speaking from behind his array of men-at-arms, "and because you have set yourself above the King. But we are no butchers, and trial shall ye have by your peers." "And who in this place are the peers of the Earl of Douglas?" said the young man, haughtily. "I will not bandy words with you, my Lord Douglas. You are overmastered. Yield yourself, therefore, as indeed you must without remeed. Deliver your weapons and submit; 'tis our will." "My brave Chancellor," said the Earl William, still in a voice of pleasant irony, "you have well chosen your time to shame yourself. We are your invited guests, and the guests of the King of Scotland. We are here unarmed, sitting at meat with you in your own house. We have come hither unattended, trusting to the honour of these noble knights and gentlemen. Therefore my brother and I have no swords to deliver. But if, being honourable men, you stand, as is natural, upon a nice punctilio, I can satisfy you." He turned again to Sholto MacKim. "Give me your sword," he said. " 'Tis better I should render it than you." With great unwillingness the captain of the guard of Thrieve did as he was bidden. The Earl reversed it in his hand and held it by the point. "And now, my Lord Chancellor, I deliver you a Douglas sword, depending upon the word of an honourable man and the invitation of the King of Scotland." But even so the chancellor would not advance from behind the cover of his soldiery, and the Earl looked around for some one to whom to surrender. "Will you then appoint one of your knights to whom I may deliver this weapon? Is there none who will dare to come near even the hilt of a Douglas sword? Here then, Sholto, break it over your knee and cast it upon the board as a witness against all treachery." Sholto did as he was told, breaking his sword and casting the pieces upon the table in the place where the King of Scots had sat. "And now, my lords, I am ready," said the Earl, and his brother David stood up beside him, looking as they faced the unbroken ring of their foes the two noblest and gallantest youths in Scotland. At this the King caught Lord William by the hand, and, lifting up his voice, wept aloud with the sudden breaking lamentation of a child. "My cousin, my dear cousin Douglas," he cried, "they shall not harm you, I swear it on my faith as a King." At last an officer of the Chancellor's guard mustered courage to approach the Earl of Douglas, and, saluting, he motioned him to follow. This, with his head erect, and his usual easy grace, he did, David walking abreast of him. And Sholto, with all his heart filled with the deadly chill of hopelessness, followed them through the sullen ranks of the traitors. And even as he went Earl Douglas looked about him every way that he might see once more her for whose sake he had adventured within the portals of death.	{ "id": "17733" }
34	BETRAYED WITH A KISS	The earl and his brother were incarcerated in the lower chamber of the High Keep called David's Tower, which rose next in order eastward from the banqueting-hall, following the line of the battlements. Beneath, the rock on which the castle was built fell away towards the Nor' Loch in a precipice so steep that no descent was to be thought of--and this indeed was the chief defence of the prison, for the window of the chamber was large and opened easily according to the French fashion. "I pray that you permit my young knight, Sir Sholto MacKim, to accompany me," said the Earl to the officer who conducted them to their prison-house. "I have no orders concerning him," said the man, gruffly, but nevertheless permitted Sholto to enter after the Earl and his brother. The chamber was bare save for a _prie-dieu_ in the angle of the wall, at which the Douglas looked with a strange smile upon his face. "Right _à propos_," said he; "they have need of religion in this house of traitors." David Douglas went to the window-seat of low stone, and bent his head into his hands. He was but a boy and life was sweet to him, for he had just begun to taste the apple and to dream of the forbidden fruit. He held his head down and was silent a space. Then suddenly he sobbed aloud with a quick, gasping noise, startling enough in that still place. "For God's dear sake, David laddie," said his brother, going over to him, placing his hand upon his shoulder, "be silent. They will think that we are afraid." The boy stilled himself instantly at the word, and looked up at his brother with a pale sort of smile. "No, William, I am not afraid, and if indeed we must die I will not disgrace you. Be never feared of that. Yet I thought on our mother's loneliness. She will miss me sore, for she fleeched and pled with me not to come, yet I would not listen to her." Sholto stood by the door, erect as if on duty at Thrieve. "Come and sit with us," said the Earl William kindly to him, "we are no more master and servant, earl and esquire. We are but three youths that are to die together, and the axe's edge levels all. You, Sholto, are in some good chance to live the longest of the three by some half score of minutes. I am glad I made you a knight on the field of honour, Sir Sholto, for then they cannot hang you to a bough, like a varlet caught stealing the King's venison." Sholto slowly came over to the window-seat and stood there respectfully as before, with his arms straight at his side, feeling more than anything else the lack of his sword-hilt to set his right hand upon. "Nay, but do as I bid you," said the Earl, looking up at him; "sit down, Sholto." And Sholto sat on the window-seat and looked forth upon the lights leaping out one after another down among the crowded gables of the town as this and that burgher lit lamp or lantern at the nearing of the hour of supper. Far away over the shore-lands the narrow strip of the Forth showed amethystine and mysterious, and farther out still the coast of Fife lay in a sort of opaline haze. "I wonder," said William Douglas, after a long pause, "what they have done with our good lads. Had they been taken or perished we had surely heard more noise, I warrant. Two score lads of Galloway would not give up their arms without a tulzie for it." "They might induce them to leave them behind, when they went out to take their pleasures among the maids of the Lawnmarket," said Sholto. "Not their swords," said the Earl, "it needed all your lord's commands to make yours quit your side. I warrant these fellows will give an excellent account of themselves." Presently the night fell darker, and a smurr of rain drifted over from the edges of Pentland, mostly passing high above, but with lower fringes that dragged, as it were, on the Castle Rock and the Hill of Calton. The three young men were still silently looking out when suddenly from the darkness underneath there came a low voice. " 'Ware window!" it said, "stand back there above." To Sholto the words sounded curiously familiar, and almost without thinking what he did, he seized the Earl and his brother and dragged them away from the wide space of the lattice, which opened into the summer's night. " 'Ware window!" came again the cautious voice from far below. Sholto heard the whistle and "spat" of an arrow against the wall without. It must have fallen again, for the voice 'came a third time--"'Ware window!" And on this occasion the archer was successful, guided doubtless by the illumination of the lantern the guard had hung on a nail, and whose flicker would outline the lattice faintly against the darkness of the wall. An arrow entered with a soft hiss. It struck beyond them with a click, and its iron point tinkled on the floor, the plaster of the opposite wall not holding it. Sholto scrambled about the floor on hands and knees till he found it. It was a common archer's arrow. A cord was fastened about it, and a note stuck in the slit along with the feather. "It is my brother Laurence," whispered Sholto. "I warrant he is beneath with a rope and a posse of stout fellows. We shall escape them yet." But even as he raised the letter to read it by the faint blue flicker of the lantern, there came a cry of pain from within the castle. It was a woman's voice that cried, and at the sound of pleading speech in some chamber above them, William Douglas started to his feet. The words were clear enough, but in a language not understood by Sholto MacKim. They seemed intelligible enough, however, to the Earl. "I knew it," he cried; "the false hounds have imprisoned her also. It is Sybilla's voice. God in heaven--they are torturing her!" He ran to the door and shook it vehemently. "Ho! Without there!" he cried imperiously, as if in his own Castle at Thrieve. But no one paid any attention to his shouts, and presently the woman's voice died down to a slow sobbing which was quite audible in the room beneath, where the three young men listened. "What did she say?" asked David, presently, of his brother, who still stood with his ear to the door. The Earl first made a gesture commanding silence, and then, hearing nothing more, he came slowly over to the window. "It is the Lady Sybilla," he said, in a voice which revealed his deep emotion. "She said, in the French language, 'You shall not kill him. You shall not! He trusted me and he shall not die.'" Meanwhile Sholto, knowing that there was no time to lose, had been drawing in the cord, which presently thickened into a rope stout enough to support the weight of a light and active youth such as any of the three young men imprisoned in David's Tower. But the sound of the woman's tears had thrown the Earl into an excitement so extreme that he hammered on the great bolt-studded door with his bare clenched hands, and cried aloud to the Chancellor and Livingston, commanding them to open to him. His first calmness seemed completely broken up. Meanwhile Sholto, his whole soul bent on the cord which gave the unseen Douglases a chance of saving the lives of their masters, had drawn thirty yards of stout rope into the room. He fixed it by a double knot, first to a ring which was let into the wall, and afterwards to the massive handle of the door itself. "Now, my lord," he whispered, as he finished, "be pleased to go first. Our lads are beneath, and in the shaking of a cow's tail we shall be safe in the midst of them." The Earl held up his hand with the quick imperative motion he used to command silence. The sound of the woman's voice came again from above, now quick and high, like one who makes an agonised petition, and now in tones lower that seemed broken with sobs and lamentations. At first William Douglas did not appear to comprehend the meaning of Sholto's words, being so bent on his listening. But when the young captain of the guard again reminded him that the time of their chances for relief was quickly passing, and that the soldiers of the Chancellor might come at any moment to lead them to their doom, the Earl broke out upon him in sudden anger. "For what crawling thing do you take me, Sholto MacKim?" he cried; "I will not leave this place till I know what they have done with her. She trusted me, and shall I prove a recreant? I would have you know that I am William, Earl of Douglas, and fear not the face of any Crichton that ever breathed. Ho--there--without!" and again he shook the door with ineffectual anger. His only answer was the sound of that beseeching woman's voice, and the measured tread of the sentry, whose partisan they could see flashing in the lamplight through the narrow barred wicket, as he turned in front of their door. And it was now all in vain that Sholto pled with his master. To every argument Lord Douglas replied, "I cannot go--it consorts not with mine honour to leave this castle so long as the Lady Sybilla is in their hands." Sholto told him how they could now escape, and in a week would raise the whole of the south, returning to the siege of the castle and the destruction of the traitors Crichton and Livingston. But even to this the Earl had his answer. "What--flee like a coward and leave this girl, who has loved and trusted me, defenceless in their hands! You yourself have heard her weeping. I tell you I cannot go--I will not go. Let David and you escape! My place is here, and neither snivelling Crichton nor that backstairs lap-dog Livingston shall say that they took the Earl of Douglas, and that he fled from them under cloud of night." David Douglas had been standing by hopefully while Sholto tied the rope to the rings. At his brother's words he sat down again. William of Douglas turned about upon him. "Go, David, I bid you. Escape, and if aught happen to me, fail not to make the traitors pay dearly for it." But David Douglas sat still and answered not. Then Sholto, desperate of success with his master, approached David, and with gentle force would have compelled him to the window. But, at the first touch of his hand, the boy thrust him away, striking him fiercely upon the shoulder. "Hands off!" he cried, "I also am a Douglas and no craven. I will abide by my brother to the end." "No, my David," said the Earl, turning for a moment from the door where he had been again listening, "you shall not stay! You are the hope of our house. My mother would fret to death if aught happened to you. This is not a matter which concerns you. Go, I bid you. On me it lies, and if I must pay the reckoning, why at least only I drank the wine." "I will not;" cried the boy; "I tell you I will bide where my brother bides and his fate shall be mine." Then Sholto, well nigh frantic with apprehension and disappointment, went to the window and leaned out, gripping the sill with his hands. "They will not leave the castle," he whispered as loud as he dared; "the Earl will not escape while the Lady Sybilla remains a prisoner within." "God in heaven!" cried a stern voice from below which made Sholto start, "we shall be broken first and last upon that woman. Would to God I had slain her with my hand! Tell the Earl that if he will not come to those that wait for him underneath the tower, I, Malise MacKim, will come and fetch him like a child in my arms, even as I did from under the pine trees at Loch Roan." And as he spoke the strain of the rope and its swaying over the window-sill proclaimed that the mighty form of the master armourer was even then on the way upwards towards the dungeon of his chief. "Go back, I command you, Malise MacKim," he said, "go back instantly. I have made up my mind. I will not escape from the Castle of Edinburgh this night." But Malise answered not a word, only pulled more desperately on the rope, till the sound of his labouring breath and grasping palms could be heard from side to side of the chamber. The Earl leaned further out. "Malise," he said, calm and clear, "you see this knife. I would not have your blood on my hands. You have been a good and faithful servant to our house. But, by the oath of a Douglas, if you come one foot farther, I will cut the rope and you shall be dashed in pieces beneath." The master armourer stopped--not with any fear of death upon him, but lest a stroke of his master's dirk should destroy their well-arranged mode of escape. "O Earl William, my dear lord, hear me," he said in a gasping voice, still hanging perilously between earth and heaven. "If I have indeed been a faithful servant, I beseech you come with me--for the sake of the house of Douglas and of your mother, a widow and alone." "Go down, Malise MacKim," said the Earl, more gently; "I will speak with you only at the rope's foot." So very unwillingly Malise went back. "Now," said the Earl, "hearken--this will I do and no other. I will remain here and abide that which shall befall me, as is the will of God. I am bound by a tie that I cannot break. What life is to another, honour and his word must be to a Douglas. But I send your son Sholto to you. I bid him ride fast to Galloway and bring all that are faithful with speed here to Edinburgh. Go also into Douglasdale and tell my cousin William of Avondale--and if he is too late to save, I know well he will avenge me." "O William Douglas, if indeed ye will neither fleech nor drive, I pray you for the sake of the great house to send your brother David, that the Douglases of the Black be not cut off root and branch. Remember, your mother is sore set on the lad." "I will not go," cried David, as he heard this; "by the saints I will stand by my brother's shoulder, though I be but a boy! I will not go so much as a step, and if by force ye stir me I will cry for the guard!" By this time the young David was leaning half out of the window, and almost shouting out his words down to the unseen Douglases beneath. "Go, Sholto," said the Earl, setting his hand on his squire's shoulder. "You alone can ride to Galloway without drawing rein. Go swiftly and bring back every true lad that can whang bow, or gar sword-iron whistle. The Douglas must drie the Douglas weird. I would have made you a great man, Sir Sholto, but if you get a new master, he will surely do that which I had not time to perform." "Come, Sholto," said his father, "there is a horse at the outer port. I fear the Crichton's men are warned. As it is we shall have to fight for it." Sholto still hesitated, divided between obedience and grief. "Sholto MacKim," said the Earl, "if indeed you owe me aught of love or service, go and do that thing which I have laid upon you. Bear a courteous greeting from me to your sweetheart Maud, and a kiss to our Maid Margaret. And now haste you and begone!" Sholto bent a moment on his knee and kissed the hand of his young master. His voice was choked with sobs. The Earl patted him on the shoulder. "Dinna greet, laddie," he said, in the kindly country speech which comes so meltingly to all Galloway folk in times of distress, gentle and simple alike, "dinna greet. If one Douglas fall in the breach, there stands ever a better behind him." "But never one like you, my lord, my lord!" said Sholto. The Earl raised him gently, led him to the window, and himself steadied the rope by which his squire was to descend. "Go!" he said; "honour keeps the Douglas here, and his brother bides with him--since not otherwise it may be. But the honour of obedience sends Sholto MacKim to the work that is given him!" Then, after the captain of his guard had gone out into the dark and disappeared down the rope, the Earl only waited till the tension slackened before stooping and cutting the cord at the point of juncture with the iron ring. "And now, Davie lad," he said, setting an arm about his brother's neck, "there are but you and me for it, and I think a bit prayer would not harm either of us." So the two young lads, being about to die, kneeled down together before the cross of Him who was betrayed with a kiss.	{ "id": "17733" }
35	THE LION AT BAY	The morning had broken broad and clear from the east when the door of the prison-house was opened, and a seneschal appeared. He saluted the brothers, and in a shaking voice summoned them to come forth and be tried for offences of treason and rebellion against the King and his ministers. William of Douglas waved a hand to him, but answered nothing to the summons. He wasted no words upon one who merely did as he was bidden. All night the brothers had sat looking out on the city humming sleeplessly beneath them, till the light slowly dawned over the Forth and away to the eastward Berwick Law stood dwarfed and clear. At first they had sat apart, but as the hours stole on David came a little nearer and his hand sought that of his brother, clasped it, and abode as it had been contented. The elder brother returned the pressure. "David," he said, "if perish we must, at least you and I will show them how Douglases can die." So when they rose to follow the seneschal who summoned them, as they left the chamber of detention and the clanking guard fell in behind them, Earl William put his hand affectionately on his young brother's shoulder and kept it there. In this wise they came into the great hall wherein yester-even the banquet of treachery had been served. The dais had been removed to the upper end of the room, and upon it in the furred robes of judges of the realm, there sat on either side of the empty throne Crichton the Chancellor and Sir Alexander Livingston. Behind were crowded groups of knights, pages, men-at-arms, and all the hangers-on of a court. But of men of dignity and place only the Marshal de Retz, ambassador of the King of France, was present. He sat alone on a high seat ranged crosswise upon the dais. The floor in the centre of the hall was kept clear for the entrance of the brothers of Douglas. Crichton and Livingston looked uneasily at each other as the feet of the guard conducting the prisoners were heard in the corridor without, and with a quick, apprehensive wave of his hand Crichton motioned the armed men of his guard closer about him, and gave their leader directions in a hushed voice behind his palm. The seneschal who had summoned them strode in first, and then after a sufficient interval entered the young Lords of Douglas, William and David his brother. The elder still kept one hand affectionately on the shoulder of the younger. His other was set as usual in the silken belt which he wore about his waist, and he walked carelessly, with a high air and an easy step, like one that goes in expectantly to a pleasant entertainment. But as soon as the brothers perceived in whose presence they were, an air of pride came over their faces and stiffened their figures into the sterner aspect of warriors who stand on the field of battle. Some three paces before the steps of the dais on which sat the self-constituted judges was arranged a barrier of strong wooden posts tipped with iron, and two soldiers with drawn swords were on guard at either end. The Douglases stood silent, haughtily awaiting the first words of accusation. And the face of young David was to the full as haughty and contemptuous as that of Earl William himself. It was the Chancellor who spoke first, in his high rasping creak. "William, Earl of Douglas, and you David, called the Master of Douglas," he began, "you are summoned hither by the King's authority to answer for many crimes of treason against his royal person--for rebellion also and the arming of forces against his authority--for high speeches and studied contempt of those who represent his sovereign Majesty in this realm, for treasonable alliances with rebel lords, and above all for swearing allegiance to another monarch, even to the King of France. What have you to say to these charges?" The Earl of Douglas swept his eyes across the dais from side to side with a slow contempt which made the Chancellor writhe in his chair. Then after a long pause he deigned to reply, but rather like a king who grants a favour than like one accused before judges in whose hands is the power of life and death. "I see," said he, "two knights before me on a high seat, one the King's tutor, the other his purse-bearer. I have yet to learn who constituted them judges of any cause whatsoever, still less of aught that concerns William Douglas, Duke of Touraine, Earl of Douglas, hereditary Lieutenant-Governor of the realm of Scotland." And he kept his eyes upon them with a straight forth-looking glance, palpably embarrassing to the traitors on the dais. "Earl Douglas," said the Chancellor again, "pray remember that you are not now in Castle Thrieve. Your six thousand horsemen wait not in the courtyard out there. Learn to be more humble and answer to the things whereof you are accused. Do you desire that witness should be brought?" "Of what need are witnesses? I own no court or jurisdiction. I have heard no accusations!" said the Earl William. The Chancellor motioned with his hand, whereupon Master Robert Berry, a procurator of the city, advanced and read a long parchment which set forth in phrase and detail of legality twenty accusations against the Earl,--of treason, rebellion, and manifest oppression. When he had finished the Chancellor said, "And now, Earl Douglas, what answer have you to these things?" "Does it matter at all what I answer?" asked the Earl, succinctly. "I do not bandy words with you," said the Chancellor; "I order you to make your pleading, or stand within your danger." "And yet," said William Douglas, gravely, "words are all that you dare bandy with me. Even if I honoured you by laying aside my dignities and consented to break a lance with you, you would refuse to afford me trial by battle, which is the right of every peer accused." " 'Tis a barbarous custom," said the Chancellor; "we will try your case upon its merit." The Earl laughed a little mocking laugh. "It will be somewhat safer," said he, "but haste you and get the sham done with. I plead nothing. I do not even tell you that you lie. What doth one expect of a gutter-dog but that it should void the garbage it hath devoured? But I do ask you, Marshal de Retz, as a brave soldier and the representative of an honourable King, what you have done with the Lady Sybilla?" The Marshal de Retz smiled--a smile so chill, cruel, hard, that the very soldiers on guard, seeing it, longed to slay him on the spot. "May I, in return, ask my Lord Earl of Douglas and Duke of Touraine what is that to him?" he said, with sneering emphasis upon the titles. "It matters to me," replied William Douglas, boldly, "more than life, and almost as much as honour. The Lady Sybilla did me the grace to tell me that she loved me. And I in turn am bound to her in life and death." The Chancellor and the tutor broke into laughter, but the marshal continued to smile his terrible smile of determinate evil. "Listen," he said at last, "hear this, my Lord of Touraine; ever since we came to this kingdom, and, indeed, long before we left the realm of France, the Lady Sybilla intended nothing else than your deception and destruction. Poor dupe, do you not yet understand? She it was that cozened you with fair words. She it was that advised you to come hither that we might hold you in our hands. For her sake you obeyed. She was the willing bait of the trap your foes set for you. What think you of the Lady Sybilla now?" William of Douglas did not answer in words, but as the marshal ceased speaking, he drew himself together like a lithe animal that sways this way and that before springing. His right hand dropped softly from his brother's shoulder upon the hilt of his own dagger. Then with one sudden bound he was over the barrier and upon the dais. Almost his blade was at the marshal's throat, and but for the crossed partisans of two guards who stood on either side of de Retz, he had died there and then by the dagger of William Douglas. As it was, the youth was brought to a stand with his breast pressed vainly against the steel points, and paused there crying out in fury, "Liar and toad! Come out from behind these varlets that I may slay thee with my hand." A score of men-at-arms approached from behind, and forced the young man back to his place. "Bring in the Lady Sybilla," said the marshal, still smiling, while the judges sat silent and afraid at the anger of one man. And even while the Earl stood panting after his outburst of furious anger, they opened the door at the back of the dais and through it there entered the Lady Sybilla. Instantly the eyes of William Douglas fixed themselves upon her, but she did not raise hers nor look at him. She stood at the farther side at the edge of the dais, her hands joined in front of her, and her hair streamed down her back and fell in waves over her white dress. An angel of light coming through the open door of heaven could not have appeared more innocent and pure. The Marshal de Retz turned towards his sister-in-law, and, with his eyes fixed upon hers and with the same pitiless chill in them, he said in a low tone, "Look at me." The girl raised her eyes slowly, and, as it had been, reluctantly, and in them, instead of the meek calm of an angel, there appeared the terror and dismay of a lost soul that listens to its doom. "Sybilla," hissed rather than spoke de Retz, "is it true that ever since by the lakeside of Carlinwark you met the Earl of Douglas you have deceived him and sought his doom?" "I care not to hear the answer," said the young man, "even did I believe that which you by your power may compel her to say. Unfaith in another is not unfaith in me. I am bound to this lady in love and honour--aye, even unto death, if that be her will!" "I have, indeed, deceived him!" replied the girl, slowly, the words seeming to be forced from her one by one. "You hear, William of Douglas!" said the marshal, turning upon the young man, who stood still and motionless, never taking his eyes off the slender figure in white. The marshal continued his pitiless questioning. "At Castle Thrieve you persuaded him to follow you to Crichton and afterwards to Edinburgh, knowing well that you brought him to his death." "It is true!" said the girl, with a voice like one speaking out of the grave itself. "You hear, William of Douglas!" said the marshal. "And at Castle Crichton you played the play to the end. With false cozening words you deceived this young man. You led him on with love on your lips and hate in your heart. You kissed him with the Judas kiss. You led his soul captive to death by the drawing of your eyes." In a voice that could hardly be heard the girl replied, her whole figure fixed and turned to stone by the intensity of her tormentor's gaze. _"I did these things! I am accursed!" _ The ambassador turned with a fleering triumph. "You hear, William of Douglas," he said, "you hear what your true love says!" Then it was that, with the calm air and steady voice of a great gentleman, William Douglas answered, "I hear, but I do not believe." A spasm of joy passed over the countenance of the Lady Sybilla. She half sprang towards her lover as if to clasp him in her arms. But in the midst, between intent and act, she restrained herself. "No, I am not worthy," she said. And again, and lower, like a lamentation, "I am not worthy!" Then, while all watched eagerly, the marshal rose from his seat to his full height. "Girl--look at me!" he cried in a loud and terrible voice. But Sybilla did not seem to hear him. She was looking at the Earl, and her eyes were great and grey and vague. "Listen, my true lord, and then hate me if you will," she said; "listen, William of Douglas. Never before have I found in all the world one man true to the core. I did not believe that such an one lived. Hear this and then turn from me in loathing. "For the sake of this man's life, forfeit ten times over" (she pointed, as she spoke, at the marshal), "to whom, by the powers of hell, my soul is bound, I came at the bidding of the King of France and of this man, my master, to compass the destruction of the Earl of Douglas. Our King's son desired his duchy, and promised to this man pardon for his evil deeds. I came to satisfy them both. On my guilty head be the punishment. It is true that I cozened and led you on. It is true that at Castle Thrieve I deceived you, knowing well that which would happen. I knew to what you would follow me, and for the sake of the evil wrought by your fathers, I was glad. But afterwards at Crichton, when, in the woods by the waterside, I told you that I loved you, I did not lie. I did love you then. And by God's grace I do love you now--yea, before all men I declare it. Once for a season of glorious forgetting, all too brief, I was yours to love, now I am yours to hate and to despise. I tried to save you, but though you had my warning you would not go back or forget me. Now it is too late!" As she spoke over the face of William Douglas there had come a glow--the red blood flooding up and routing the white determined pallor of his cheek. "My lady," he answered her, gently, "be not grieved for a little thing that is past. That you love me truly is enough. I ask for no more, least of all for pity. I have not lived long. I have not had time allotted me wherein to do great things, but for your sake I can die as well as any! You have given me of your love, and of the flower thereof. I am glad. That you have loved me was my crown of life. Now it remains but to pay a little price soon paid, for a joy exceeding great." But the Chancellor had had enough of this. He rose, and, stretching forth his hand towards the barrier, he said: "William of Douglas, you and your brother are condemned to instant death as enemies of the King and his ministers. Soldiers, do your duty. Lead them forth to the block!" And with these words he left the dais, followed by Sir Alexander Livingston. The girl stood in the place whence she had spoken her last words. Then, as the men-at-arms went shamefacedly to take the Earl by the arm, she suddenly threw herself across the platform, leaped lightly over the barrier, and fell into his arms. "William, once I would have betrayed you," she said, "but now I love you. I will die with you--or by the great God I will live to avenge you." "Hush, sweetheart," said William Douglas, touching her brow gently with his lips, and putting her into the arms of an officer of the court whom her uncle had sent to remove her. "Fear not for me! Death is swift and easy. I expected nothing else. That you love me is enough! Dear love, fare thee well!" But the girl heard him not. She had fainted in the arms that held her. Yet the Marshal de Retz had still more for her to suffer. He stood beside her and dashed water upon her till she awoke, that she might see that which remained to be done. * * * * * It was a scene dreary beyond all power of words to tell it, when into the courtyard of the Castle of Edinburgh they brought the two noble young men forth to die. The sun had long risen, but the first flush of broad morning sunshine still lingered upon the low platform on which stood the block, and beside it the headsman sullenly waiting to do his appointed work. The young Lords of Douglas came out looking brave and handsome as bridegrooms on a day of betrothing. William had once more his hand on David's shoulder, his other rested carelessly on his thigh as his custom was. The brothers were bareheaded, and to the eyes of those who looked on they seemed to be conversing together of light matters of love and ladies' favours. High above upon a balcony, hung like an iron cage upon the castle wall, appeared the Chancellor and the tutor. The young King was with them, weeping and crying out, "Do nothing to my dear cousins--I command you--I am the King!" But the tutor roughly bade him be still, telling him that he would never reign if these young men lived, and presently another came there and stood beside him. The Marshal de Retz it was, who, with a fiendish smile upon his sleek parchment face, conducted the Lady Sybilla to see the end. But it was a good end to see, and nobler far than most lives that are lived to fourscore years. The brothers embraced as they came to the block, kneeled down, and said a short prayer like Christians of a good house. So great was their enemies' haste that they were not allowed even a priest to shrive them, but they did what they could. The executioner motioned first to David. An attendant brought him the heading cup of wine, which it was the custom to offer to those about to die upon the scaffold. "Drink it not," said Earl William, "lest they say it was drugged." And David Douglas bowed his head upon the block, being only in the fifteenth year of his age. "Farewell, brother," he said, "be not long after me. It is a darksome road to travel so young." "Fear not, Davie lad," said William Douglas, tenderly, "I will overtake you ere you be through the first gate." He turned a little aside that he might not see his brother die, and even as he did so he saw the Lady Sybilla lean upon the balcony paler than the dead. Then when it came to his turn they offered the Earl William also the heading cup filled with the rich wine of Touraine, his own fair province that he was never to see. He lifted the cup high in his right hand with a knightly and courtly gesture. Looking towards the balcony whereon stood the Lady Sybilla, he bowed to her. "I drink to you, my lady and my love," he cried, in a voice loud and clear. Then, touching but the rim of the goblet with his lips, he poured out the red wine upon the ground. * * * * * And thus passed the gallantest gentleman and truest lover in whom God ever put heart of grace to live courteously and die greatly, keeping his faith in his lady even against herself, and holding death itself sweet because that in death she loved him.	{ "id": "17733" }
36	THE RISING OF THE DOUGLASES	It was upon the Earl's own charger, Black Darnaway, that Sholto rode southward to raise to their chief's assistance the greatest and compactest clan that ever, even in Scotland, had done the bidding of one man. The young man's heart was high and hopeful within him. The King's guardians dared not, so he told himself, let aught befall the puissant Douglases in the Castle of Edinburgh, without trial and under cover of the most courteous hospitality. "Try the Earl of Douglas!" so Sholto thought within him. He laughed at the notion. "Why, Earl William could by a word bring a hundred thousand men of Galloway and the Marches to make a fitting jury." So he meditated, his thoughts running fast and fiery to the beating of Black Darnaway's feet as he climbed the heathery slopes which led towards Douglasdale. Day was breaking as he rode down to the town of Lanark yet asleep and smokeless in the caller airs of the morn. At the gates of this frontier town he delivered his first summons of feudality. For the burghers of Lanark were liegemen of the Douglases of Douglasdale, and were (though not with much good-will) bound to furnish service at call. Sholto had some difficulty in making himself heard athwart the ponderous wooden gates, bossed with leather and studded with iron. At first he shouted angrily to the silences, but presently nearer and nearer came a bellow as of a brazen bull, thunderous and far echoing. "Fower o' the clock and a braw, braw morning." It was Grice Elshioner, watchman of the town of Lanark, evidencing to the magistrates and lieges thereof that he was earning his three shillings in the week--a handsome wage in these hard times, and one well able to provide belly-timber for himself and also for the wife and weans who, dwelling in a close off the High-street, were called by his name. Sholto thundered again upon the rugged portal. "Open there! Open, I say, in the name of the Earl of Douglas!" "Fower o' the morning! Lord, what's a' the steer? In the name o' the Yerl o' Douglas! But wha kens that it isna the English? Na, na, Grice Elshioner opens not to every night-raking loon that likes to cry the name o' the Yerl o' Douglas ower oor toon wa'!" And Grice the valorous would have taken him off with a fresh, sleep-dispelling bellow had it not been that he heard himself summoned in a voice that brooked no delay. "Open, varlet of a watchman, or by Saint Bride I will have you swinging in half an hour from the bars of your own portcullis. I who speak am Sholto MacKim, captain of the Earl's guard. Every liegeman in the town must arm, mount, and ride this instant to Edinburgh. I give you fair warning. You hear my words, I will not enter your rascal town. But if so much as one be wanting at the muster, I swear in the name of my master that his house shall be burned with fire and razed to the ground, and his wife be a widow or ever the cock craw on another Sabbath morn!" And without waiting for a reply Sholto laid the reins upon the neck of Black Darnaway and rode on southward up Douglas Water to the home nest of the lordly race. And behind him, with a wail in it, blared through the narrow streets the stormy voice of Grice Elshioner, watchman of Lanark, "Wauken ye, wauken ye, burgesses a'! The Douglas hath sent to bid ye mount and ride." The _birr_ of the war drum saluted Sholto's ears ere he had turned the corner of the town parks. Then came the answering shouts of the burghers who thrust inquiring and indignant heads out of gable windows and turret speering-holes. " _Birr! _" continued the undaunted and insistent town drum. "Harness your backs! Fill your bellies, and stand ready! The Douglas has need o' ye, lieges a'!" cried the sonorous voice of the watch. Sholto smiled as he listened. "I have at least set them on the alert. They will join the Douglasdale men as they pass by, or we will show them reason why. But they of Lanark are ill-set town-ward men, and of no true leal heart, save an it be to their own coffers. Yet will they march with us for fear of the harrying hand and the burning roof tree." The sun rose fair on the battlements of Douglas Castle as Sholto rode up to the level mead, whereon a little company of men was exercising. He could hear the words of command cried gruffly in the broad Galloway speech. Landless Jock was drilling his spearmen, and as the shining triple line of points dropped to the "ready to receive," the old knight and former captain of the Earl's guard came forward a little way to welcome his successor with what grace was at his command. "Eh, siree, and what has brocht sic a braw young knight and grand frequenter o' courts sae far as Douglas Castle? Could ye no even let puir Landless Jock hae the tilt-yaird here to exercise his handfu' in, and keep his auld banes a wee while frae the rust and the green mould?" But even as the crusty old soldier spoke these words, the white anxiety in Sholto's face struck through his half-humorous complaint, and the words died on his lips in a perturbed "What is't--what is't ava, laddie?" Sholto told him in the fewest words. "The Yerl and Dawvid in the power o' their hoose's enemies. Blessed Saint Anthony, and here was I flighterin' and ragin' aboot my naethings. Here, lads, blaw the horn and cry the slogan. Fetch the horses frae the stall and stand ready in your war gear within ten minutes by the knock. Aye, faith, will we raise Douglasdale! Gang your ways to Gallowa'--there shall not a man bide at hame this day. Certes, we wull that! Ca' in the by-gaun at Lanark--aye, lad, and, gin the rascals are no willing or no ready, we will hang the provost and magistrates at their ain door-cheeks to learn them to bide frae the cried assembly o' their liege lord!" Sholto had done enough in Douglasdale. He turned north again on a yet more important errand. It was forenoon full and broad when he halted before the little town of Strathaven, upon which the Castle of Avondale looks down. It seemed of the greatest moment that the Avondale Douglases should know that which had befallen their cousin. For no suspicion of treachery within the house and name of Douglas itself touched with a shade of shadow the mind of Sholto MacKim. He thundered at the town-ward port of the castle (to which a steep ascent led up from a narrow vennel), where presently the outer guard soon crowded about him, listening to his story and already fingering bowstring and examining rope-matches preparatory to the expected march upon Edinburgh. "I have not time to waste, comrades; I would see my lords," said Sholto. "I must see them instantly." And even as he spoke there on the steps before him appeared the dark, handsome face and tall but slightly stooping figure of William Douglas of Avondale. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, and his serious thought-weighted brow bent upon the concourse about Sholto. With a push of his elbows this way and that, the young captain of the Earl's guard opened a road through the press. In short, emphatic sentences he told his tale, and at the name of prisonment and treachery to his cousins the countenance of William Douglas grew stern and hard. His face twitched as if the news came very near to him. He did not answer for a moment, but stood biting his lips and glooming upon Sholto, as though the young man had been a prisoner waiting sentence of pit or gallows for evil doing. "I must see James concerning this ill news," he said when Sholto had finished telling him of the Black Bull's Head at the Chancellor's banquet-table. He turned to go within. "My lord," said Sholto, "will you give me another horse, and let Darnaway rest in your stables? I must instantly ride south again to raise Galloway." "Order out all the horses which are ready caparisoned," commanded William of Avondale, "and do you, Captain Sholto, take your choice of them." He went within forthwith and there ensued a pause filled with the snorting and prancing of steeds, as, mettlesome with oats and hay, they issued from their stalls, or with the grass yet dewy about their noses were led in from the field. Darnaway took his leave of Sholto with a backward neigh of regret, as if to say he was not yet tired of going on his master's service. Then presently on the terrace above appeared lazy Lord James, busily buckling the straps of his body-armour and talking hotly the while with his brother William. "I care not even whether our father--" he cried aloud ere, with a restraining hand upon his wrist, his elder brother could succeed in stopping him. "Hush, James," he said, "at least be mindful of those that stand around." "I care not, I tell you, William," cried the headstrong youth, squaring his shoulders as he was wont to do before a fight. "I tell you that you and I are no traitors to our name, and who meddles with our coz, Will of Thrieve, hath us to reckon with!" William of Avondale said nothing, but held out his hand with a slow, determinate gesture. Said he, "An it were the father that begat us." Whereat, with all the impetuousness of his race and nature, James dashed his palm into that of his brother. "Whiles, William," he cried, "ye appear clerkish and overcautious, and I break out and miscall ye for no Douglas, when ye will not spend your siller like a man and are afraid of the honest pint stoup. But at the heart's heart ye are aye a Douglas--and though the silly gaping commons like ye not so well as they like me, ye are the best o' us, for all that." So it came to pass that within the space of half an hour the Avondale Douglases had sent men to the four airts, young Hugh Douglas himself riding west, while James stirred the folk of Avondale and Strathavon, and in all the courtyards and streets of the little feudal bourg there began the hum and buzz of the war assembly. Lord William went with Sholto to see staunch Darnaway duly stabled, and to approve the horse which was to bear the messenger to the south without halt, now that his mission was accomplished in the west. When they came out Sholto's riding harness had been transferred to a noble grey steed large enough to carry even the burly James, let alone the slim captain of the archer guard of Thrieve. In the court, ranked and ready, bridle to bridle were ranged the knights and squires in waiting about the Castle of Avondale, while out on a level green spot on the edge of the moor gathered the denser array of the townfolk with spears and partisans. In an hour the Avondale Douglases were ready to ride to the assistance of their cousins. Alas, that Earl William would take no advice, for had these and others gone in with him to the fatal town, there would have been no Black Bull's Head on the Chancellor's dinner table in the banqueting-hall of Edinburgh Castle.	{ "id": "17733" }
37	A STRANGE MEETING	It was approaching the evening of the third day after riding forth upon his mission when Sholto, sleepless yet quite unconscious of weariness, approached the loch of Carlinwark and the cottage of Brawny Kim. West and south he had raised the Douglas country as it had never been raised before. And now behind him every armiger and squire, every spearman and light-foot archer, was hasting Edinburgh-ward, eager to be first to succour the young and headstrong chief of his great house. Sholto had ridden and cried the slogan as was his duty, without allowing his mind to dwell over much upon whether all might not arrive too late. And ever as he rode out of village or across the desolate moors from castle to fortified farmhouse, it seemed that not he but some other was upon this quest. Something sterner and harder stirred in his breast. Light-hearted Sholto MacKim, the careless lad of the jousting day, the proud young captain of the Earl's guard, was dead with all his vanity. And in his place a man rode southward grim and determined, with vengeful angers a-smoulder in his bosom,--hunger, thirst, love, the joy of living and the fear of death all being swallowed up by deadly hatred of those who had betrayed his master. Maud Lindesay was doubtless within a few miles of Sholto, yet he scarcely gave even his sweetheart a thought as he urged his weary grey over the purple Parton moors towards the loch of Carlinwark and the little hamlet nestling along its western side under the ancient thorn trees of the Carlin's hill. He rode down over the green and empty Crossmichael braes on which the broom pods were crackling in the afternoon sunshine, through hollows where the corn lingered as though unwilling to have done with such a scene of beauty, and find itself mewed in dusty barns, ground in mills, or close pressed in thatched rick. He breasted the long smooth rise and entered the woods which encircle the bright lakelet of Carlinwark, the pearl of all southland Scottish lochs. With a strange sense of detachment he looked down upon the green sward between him and his mother's gable end, upon which as a child he had wandered from dawn to dusk. Then it was nearly as large as the world, and the grass was most comfortable to bare feet. There were children playing upon it now, even as there had been of old, among them his own little sister Magdalen, whose hair was spun gold, and her eyes blue as the forget-me-not on the marshes of the Isle Wood. The children were dressed in white, five little girls in all, as for a festal day, and their voices came upward to Sholto's ear through the arches of the great beeches which studded the turf with pavilions of green shade, tenderly as they had done to that of William Douglas in the spring-time of the year. The minor note, the dying fall of the innocent voices, tugged at his heartstrings. He could hear little Magdalen leading the chorus: _"Margaret Douglas, fresh and fair, A bunch of roses she shall wear, Gold and silver by her side, I know who's her bride." _ It was at "Fair Maid" they were playing, the mystic dance of Southland maidenhood, at whose vestal rites no male of any age was ever permitted to be present. The words broke in upon the gloom which oppressed Sholto's heart. Momentarily he forgot his master and saw Maud Lindesay with the little Margaret Douglas of whom the children sang, once again gathering the gowans on the brae sides of Thrieve or perilously reaching out for purple irises athwart the ditches of the Isle. _"Take her by the lily-white hand, Lead her o'er the water; Give her kisses, one, two, three, For she's a lady's daughter." _ As Sholto MacKim listened to the quaint and moving lullaby, suddenly there came into the field of his vision that which stiffened him into a statue of breathing marble. For without clatter of accoutrement or tramp of hoof, without companion or attendant, a white palfrey had appeared through the green arches of the woodlands. A girl was seated upon the saddle, swaying with gentle movement to the motion of her steed. At the sight of her figure as she came nearer a low cry of horror and amazement broke from Sholto's lips. It was the Lady Sybilla. Yet he knew that he had left her behind him in Edinburgh, the siren temptress of Earl Douglas, the woman who had led his master into the power of the enemy, she for whose sake he had refused the certainty of freedom and life. Anger against this smiling enchantress suddenly surged up in Sholto's heart. "Halt there--on your life!" he cried, and urged his wearied steed forward. Like dry leaves before a winter wind, the children were dispersed every way by the gust of his angry shout. But the maiden on the palfrey either heeded not or did not hear. Whereupon Sholto rode furiously crosswise to intercept her. He would learn what had befallen his master. At least he would avenge him upon one--the chiefest and subtlest of his enemies. But not till he had come within ten paces did the Lady Sybilla turn upon him the fulness of her regard. Then he saw her face. It broke upon him sudden as the sight of imminent hell to one sure of salvation. He had expected to find there gratified ambition, sated lust, exultant pride, cruelest vengeance. He saw instead as it had been the face of an angel cast out of heaven, or perhaps, rather, of a martyr who has passed through the torture chamber on her way to the place of burning. The sight stopped Sholto stricken and wavering. His anger fell from him like a cloak shed when the sun shines in his strength. The Lady Sybilla's face showed of no earthly paleness. Marble white it was, the eyes heavy with weeping, purple rings beneath accentuating the horror that dwelt eternally in them. The lips that had been as the bow of Apollo were parted as though they had been singing the dirge of one beloved, and ever as she rode the tears ran down her cheeks and fell on her white robe, and lower upon her palfrey's mane. She looked at Sholto when he came near, but not as one who sees or recognises. Rather, as it were, dumb, drunken, besotted with grief, looked forth the soul of the Lady Sybilla upon the captain of the Douglas guard. She heeded not his angry shout, for another voice rang in her ears, speaking the knightliest words ever uttered by a man about to die. Sholto's sword was raised threateningly in his hand, but Sybilla saw another blade gleam bright in the morning sun ere it fell to rise again dimmed and red. Therefore she checked not her steed, nor turned aside, till Sholto laid his fingers upon her bridle-rein and leaped quickly to the ground, sword in hand, leaving his own beast to wander where it would. "What do you here?" he cried. "Where is my master? What have they done to him? I bid you tell me on your life!" Sholto's voice had no chivalrous courtesy in it now. The time for that had gone by. He lowered his sword point and there was tense iron in the muscles of his arm. He was ready to kill the temptress as he would a beautiful viper. The Lady Sybilla looked upon him, but in a dazed fashion, like one who rests between the turns of the rack. In a little while she appeared to recognise him. She noted the sword in his hand, the death in his eye--and for the first time since the scene in the courtyard of Edinburgh Castle, she smiled. Then the fury in Sholto's heart broke suddenly forth. "Woman," he cried, "show me cause why I should not slay you. For, by God, I will, if aught of harm hath overtaken my master. Speak, I bid you, speak quickly, if you have any wish to live." But the Lady Sybilla continued to smile--the same dreadful, mocking smile--and somehow Sholto, with his weapon bare and his arm nerved to the thrust, felt himself grow weak and helpless under the stillness and utter pitifulness of her look. "You would kill me--kill _me_, you say--" the words came low and thrilling forth from lips which were as those of the dead whose chin has not yet been bound about with a napkin, "ah, would that you could! But you cannot. Steel will not slay, poison will not destroy, nor water drown Sybilla de Thouars till her work be done!" Sholto escaped from the power of her eye. "My master--" he gasped, "my master--is he well? I pray you tell me." Was it a laugh he heard in answer? Rather a sound, not of human mirth but as of a condemned spirit laughing deep underground. Then again the low even voice replied out of the expressionless face. "Aye, your master is well." "Ah, thank God," burst forth Sholto, "he is alive." The Lady Sybilla moved her hand this way and that with the gesture of a blind man groping. "Hush," she said, "I only said that he was well. And he is well. As I am already in the place of torment, I know that there is a heaven for those who die as William Douglas died." Sholto's cry rang sudden, loud, despairing. "Dead--dead--Earl William dead--my master dead!" He dropped the palfrey's rein, which till now he had held. His sword fell unheeded on the turf, and he flung himself down in an agony of boyish grief. But from her white palfrey, sitting still where she was, the maiden watched the paroxysms of his sorrow. She was dry eyed now, and her face was like a mask cut in snow. Then as suddenly recalling himself, Sholto leaped from the ground, snatched up his sword, and again passionately advanced upon the Lady Sybilla. "You it was who betrayed him," he cried, pointing the blade at her breast; "answer if it were not so!" "It is true I betrayed him," she answered calmly. "You whom he loved--God knows how unworthily--" "God knows," she said simply and calmly. "You betrayed him to his death. Why then should not I kill you?" Again she smiled upon him that disarming, hopeless, dreadful smile. "Because you cannot kill me. Because it were too crowning a mercy to kill me. Because, for three inches of that blade in my heart, I would bless you through the eternities. Because I must do the work that remains--" "And that work is--?" "Vengeance!!" Sholto was silent, trying to piece things together. He found it hard to think. He was but a boy, and experience so strange as that of the Lady Sybilla was outside him. Yet vaguely he felt that her emotion was real, more real perhaps than his own instinct of crude slaying--the desire of the wasp whose nest has been harried to sting the first comer. This woman's hatred was something deadlier, surer, more persistent. "Vengeance--" he said at last, scarce knowing what he said, "why should you, who betrayed him, speak of avenging him?" "Because," said the Lady Sybilla, "I loved him as I never thought to love man born of woman. Because when the fiends of the pit tie me limb to limb, lip to lip, with Judas who sold his master with a kiss, when they burn me in the seventh hell, I shall remember and rejoice that to the last he loved me, believed in me, gloried in his love for me. And God who has been cruel to me in all else, will yet do this thing for me. He will not let William Douglas know that I deceived him or that he trusted me in vain." "But the Vengeance that you spoke of--what of that?" said Sholto, dwelling upon that which was uppermost in his own thought. "Aye," said the Lady Sybilla, "that alone can be compassed by me. For I am bound by a chain, the snapping of which is my death. To him who, in a far land, devised all these things, to the man who plotted the fall of the Douglas house--to Gilles de Retz, Marshal of France, I am bound. But--I shall not die--even you cannot kill me, till I have brought that head that is so high to the hempen cord, and delivered the foul fiend's body to the fires of both earth and hell." "And the Chancellor Crichton--the tutor Livingston--what of them?" urged Sholto, like a Scot thinking of his native traitors. The Lady Sybilla waved a contemptuous hand. "These are but lesser rascals--they had been nothing without their master and mine. You of the Douglas house must settle with them." "And why have you returned to this country of Galloway?" said Sholto. "And why are you thus alone?" "I am here," said the Lady Sybilla, "because none can harm me with my work undone. I travel alone because it suits my mood to be alone, because my master bade me join him at your town of Kirkcudbright, whence, this very night, he takes ship for his own country of Brittany." "And why do you, if as you say you hate him so, continue to follow him?" "Ah, you are simple," she said; "I follow him because it is my fate, and who can escape his doom? Also, because, as I have said, my work is not yet done." She relapsed into her former listless, forth-looking, unconscious regard, gazing through him as if the young man had no existence. He dropped the rein and the point of his sword with one movement. The white palfrey started forward with the reins loose on its neck. And as she went the eyes of the Lady Sybilla were fixed on the distant hills which hid the sea. So, leaving Sholto standing by the lakeside with bowed head and abased sword, the strange woman went her way to work out her appointed task. But ere the Lady Sybilla disappeared among the trees, she turned and spoke once more. "I have but one counsel, Sir Knight. Think no more of your master. Let the dead bury their dead. Ride to Thrieve and never once lose sight of her whom you call your sweetheart, nor yet of her charge, Margaret Douglas, the Maid of Galloway, till the snow falls and winter comes upon the land."	{ "id": "17733" }
38	THE MACKIMS COME TO THRIEVE	Sholto MacKim stood watching awhile as the white palfrey disappeared with its rider into the purple twilight of the woods which barred the way to the Solway. Then with a violent effort of will he recalled himself and looked about for his horse. The tired beast was gently cropping the lush dewy herbage on the green slope which led downwards to his native cottage. Sholto took the grey by the bridle and walked towards his mother's door, pondering on the last words of the Lady Sybilla. A voice at once strenuous and familiar broke upon his ear. "Shoo wi' you, impident randies that ye are, shoo! Saw I ever the like aboot ony decent hoose? Thae hens will drive me oot o' my mind! Sholto, lad, what's wrang? Is't your faither? Dinna tell me it's your faither." "It is more bitter than that, mither mine." "No the Earl--surely no the Earl himsel'--the laddie that I hae nursed--the laddie that was to Barbara Halliburton as her ain dear son!" "Mother, it is the Earl and young David too. They are dead, betrayed into the hands of their enemies, cruelly and treacherously slain!" Then the keening cry smote the air as Barbara MacKim sank on her knees and lifted up her hands to heaven. "Oh, the bonny laddies--the twa bonny, bonny laddies! Mair than my ain bairns I loved them. When their ain mother wasna able for mortal weakness to rear him, William Douglas drew his life frae me. What for, Sholto, are ye standin' there to tell the tale? What for couldna ye have died wi' him? Ae mither's milk slockened ye baith. The same arms cradled ye. I bade ye keep your lord safe wi' your body and your soul. And there ye daur to stand, skin-hale and bane unbroken, before your mither. Get hence--ye are nae son o' Barbara MacKim. Let me never look on your face again, gin ye bringna back the pride o' the warld, the gladness o' the auld withered heart o' her ye ca' your mither!" "Mother," said Sholto, "my lord was not dead when I left him--he sent me to raise the country to his rescue." "And what for then are ye standin' there clavering, and your lord in danger among his foes?" cried his mother, angrily. "Dear mother, I have something more to tell ye--" "Aye, I ken, ye needna break the news. It is that Malise, my man, is dead--that Laurence, wha ran frae the Abbey to gang wi' him to the wars, is nae mair. Aweel they are worthily spent, since they died for their chief! Ye say that ye were sent to raise the clan--then what seek ye at the Carlinwark? To Thrieve, man, to Thrieve; as hard as ye can ride! To Castle Thrieve!" "Mother," said Sholto, still more gently, "hearken but a moment. Thirty thousand men are on their way to Edinburgh. Three days and nights have I ridden without sleep. Douglasdale is awake. The Upper Ward is already at the gates of the city. To a man, Galloway is on the march. The border is aflame. But it is all too late already, I have had news of the end. Before ever a man could reach within miles, the fatal axe had fallen, and my lords, for whom each one of us would gladly have died with smiles upon our faces, lay headless in the courtyard of Edinburgh Castle." "And if the laddies were alive when ye rode awa', wha brocht the news faster than my Sholto could ride--tell me that?" "I came not directly to Galloway, mother. First I raised the west from Strathaven to Ayr. Thence I carried the news to Dumfries and along the border side. But to-day I have seen the Lady Sybilla on her way to take ship for France. From her I heard the news that all I had done was too late." "That foreigneerin' randy! Wad ye believe the like o' her? Yon woman that they named 'Queen o' Beauty' at the tournay by the Fords o' Lochar! --Certes, I wadna believe her on oath, no if she swore on the blessed banes o' Saint Andro himsel'. To the castle, man, or I'll kilt my coats and be there afore you to shame ye!" "I go, mother," said Sholto, trying vainly to stem the torrent of denunciation which poured upon him; "I came only to see that all was well with you." "And what for should a' be weel wi' me? What can be ill wi' me, if it be not to gang on leevin' when the noblest young men in the warld--the lad that was suckled at my bosom, lies cauld in the clay. Awa wi' ye, Sholto MacKim, and come na back till ye hae rowed every traitor in the same bloody windin' sheet!" The foster mother of the Douglases sank on the ground in the dusk, leaning against the wall of her house. She held her face in her hands and sobbed aloud, "O Willie, Willie Douglas, mair than ony o' my ain I loed ye. Bonny were ye as a bairn. Bonny were ye as a laddie. Bonny abune a' as a noble young man and the desire o' maidens' e'en. But nane o' them a' loed ye like poor auld Barbara, that wad hae gien her life to pleasure ye. And noo she canna even steek thae black, black e'en, nor wind the corpse-claith aboot yon comely limbs--sae straight and bonny as they were--I hae straiked and kissed sae oft and oft. O wae's me--wae's me! What will I do withoot my bonny laddies!" It was with the sound of his mother's lament still in his ears that Sholto rode sadly over the hill to Thrieve. The way is short and easy, and it was not long before the captain of the guard looked down upon the lights of the castle gleaming through the gathering gloom. But instead of being, as was its wont, lighted from highest battlement to flanking tower, only one or two lamps could be discerned shining out of that vast cliff of masonry. But, on the other hand, lights were to be seen wandering this way and that over the long Isle of Thrieve, following the outlines of its winding shores, shining from the sterns of boats upon the pools of the Dee water, weaving intricately among the broomy braes on either side of the ford, and even streaming out across the water meadows of Balmaghie. Sholto was so full of his own sorrow and the certain truth of the terrible news he must bring home to the Lady of Douglas and those two whom he loved, Maud Lindesay and her fair maid, that he paid little heed to these wandering lanterns and distant flaring torches. He was pausing at the bridge head to wait the lowering of the draw-chains, when out of the covert above him there dashed a desperate horseman, who stayed neither for bridge nor ford, but rode straight at the eastern castle pool where it was deepest. To the stirrup clung another figure strange and terrible, seen in the uncertain light from the gate-house and in the pale beams of the rising moon. The drawbridge clattered down, and sending his spurs home into the flanks of his tired steed, in a moment more Sholto was hard on the track of the first headlong horseman. Scarce a length separated them as they reached the outer guard of the castle. Abreast they reined their horses in the quadrangle, and in a moment Sholto had recognised in the rider his brother Laurence, pale as death, and the figure that had clung to the stirrup as the horse took the water, was his father, Malise MacKim. Thus in one moment came the three MacKims to the door-step of Thrieve. The clatter and cry of their arrival brought a pour of torches from every side of the isle and from within the castle keep. "Have you found them--where are they?" came from every side. But Laurence seemed neither to hear nor see. "Where is my lady?" he cried in a hoarse man's voice; and again, "Instantly I must see my lady." Sholto stood aside, for he knew that these two brought later tidings than he. Presently he went over to his father, who was leaning panting upon a stone post, and asked him what were the news. But Malise thrust him back apparently without recognising him. "My lady," he gasped, "I would see my lady!" Then through the torches clustered about the steps of the castle came the tall, erect figure of the Earl's mother, the Countess of Douglas. She stood with her head erect, looking down upon the MacKims and upon the dropped heads and heaving shoulders of their horses. Above and around the torches flared, and their reek blew thwartwise across the strange scene. "I am here," she said, speaking clearly and naturally; "what would ye with the Lady of Douglas?" Thrice Laurence essayed to speak, but his ready tongue availed him not now. He caught at his horse's bridle to steady him and turned weakly to his father. "Do you speak to my lady--I cannot!" he gasped. A terrible figure was Malise MacKim, the strong man of Galloway, as he came forward. Stained with the black peat of the morasses, his armour cast off piecemeal that he might run the easier, his under-apparel torn almost from his great body, his hair matted with the blood which still oozed from an unwashed wound above his brow. "My lady," he said hoarsely, his words whistling in his throat, "I have strange things to tell. Can you bear to hear them?" "If you have found my daughter dead or dying, speak and fear not!" "I have things more terrible than the death of many daughters to tell you!" "Speak and fear not--an it touch the lives of my sons, speak freely. The mother of the Douglases has learned the Douglas lesson." "Then," said Malise, sinking his head upon his breast, "God help you, lady, your two sons are dead!" "Is David dead also?" said the Lady of Douglas. "He is dead," replied Malise. The lady tottered a little as she stood on the topmost step of the ascent to Thrieve. One or two of the torch-bearers ran to support her. But she commanded herself and waved them aside. "God--He is the God," she said, looking upwards into the black night. "In one day He has made me a woman solitary and without children. Sons and daughter He has taken from me. But He shall not break my heart. No, not even He. Stand up, Malise MacKim, and tell me how these things came to pass." And there in the blown reek of torches and the hush of the courtyard of Thrieve Malise told all the tale of the Black Dinner and the fatal morning, of the short shrift and the matchless death, while around him strong men sobbed and lifted up right hands to swear the eternal vengeance. But alone and erect as a banner staff stood the mother of the dead. Her eyes were dry, her lips compressed, her nostrils a little distended like those of a war-horse that sniffs the battle from afar. Outside the castle wall the news spread swiftly, and somewhere in the darkness a voice set up the Celtic keen. "Bid that woman hold her peace. I will hear the news and then we will cry the slogan. Say on, Malise!" Then the smith told how his horse had broken down time and again, how he had pressed on, running and resting, stripped almost naked that he might keep up with his son, because that no ordinary charger could long carry his great weight. Then when he had finished the Lady of Thrieve turned to Sholto--"And you, captain of the guard, what have you done, and wherefore left you your master in his hour of need?" Then succinctly and to the point Sholto spoke, his father and Laurence assenting and confirming as he told of the Earl's commission and of how he had accomplished those things that were laid upon him. "It is well," said the lady, calmly, "and now I also will tell you something that you do not know. My little daughter, whom ye call the Fair Maid of Galloway, with her companion, Mistress Maud Lindesay, went out more than twelve hours agone to the holt by the ford to gather hazelnuts, and no eye of man or woman hath seen them since." And, even as she spoke, there passed a quick strange pang through the heart of Sholto. He remembered the warning of the Lady Sybilla. Had he once more come too late?	{ "id": "17733" }
39	THE GIFT OF THE COUNTESS	It was the Countess of Douglas who commanded that night in the Castle of Thrieve. Sholto wished to start at once upon the search for the lost maidens. But the lady forbade him. "There are a thousand searchers who during the night will do all that you could do--and better. To-morrow we shall surely want you. You have been three nights without sleep. Take your rest. I order you in your master's name." And on the bare stone, outside Maud Lindesay's empty room, Sholto threw himself down and slept as sleep the dead. But that night, save about the chamber where abode the mother of the Douglases, the hum of life never ceased in the great Castle of Thrieve. Whether my lady slept or not, God knows. At any rate the door was closed and there was silence within. Sholto awoke smiling in the early dawn. He had been dreaming that he and Maud Lindesay were walking on the shore together. It was a lonely beach with great driftwood logs whereon they sat and rested ere they took hands again and walked forth on their way. In his dream Maud was kind, her teasing, disdainful mood quite gone. So Sholto awoke smiling, but in a moment he wished that he had slept on. He lay a space, becoming conscious of a pain in his heart--the overnight pain of a great disaster not yet realised. For a little he knew not what it was. Then he saw himself lying at Maud's open door, and he remembered--first the death of his masters, then the loss of the little maid, and lastly that of Maud, his own winsome sweetheart Maud. In another moment he had leaped to his feet, buckled his sword-belt tighter, slung his cloak into a corner, and run downstairs. The house guard which had ridden to Crichton and Edinburgh had been replaced from the younger yeomen of the Kelton and Balmaghie levies, even as the Earl had arranged before his departure. But of these only a score remained on duty. All who could be spared had gone to join the march on Edinburgh, for Galloway was set on having vengeance on the Chancellor and had sworn to lay the capital itself in ashes in revenge for the Black Dinner of the castle banqueting-hall. The rest of the guard was out searching for the bonny maids of Thrieve, as through all the countryside Margaret Douglas and Maud Lindesay were named. Eager as Sholto was to accompany the searchers, and though he knew well that no foe was south of the Forth to assault such a strong place as Thrieve, he did not leave the castle till he had set all in order so far as he could. He appointed Andro the Penman and his brother John officers of the garrison during his absence. Then, having seen to his accoutrement and providing, for he did not mean to return till he had found the maids, he went lastly to the chamber door of the Lady of Douglas to ask her leave to depart. At the first knock he heard a foot come slowly across the floor. It was my lady, who opened the latch herself and stood before Sholto in the habit she had worn when at the castle gateway Malise had told his news. Her couch was unpressed. Her window stood open towards the south. A candle still glimmered upon a little altar in an angle of the wall. She had been kneeling all night before the image of the Virgin, with her lips upon the feet of her who also was a woman, and who by treachery had lost a son. "I would have your permission to depart, my Lady Countess," said Sholto, bowing his head upon his breast that he might not intrude upon her eyes of grief; "the castle is safe, and I can be well spared. By God's grace I shall not return till I bring either the maids themselves or settled news of them. Have I your leave to go?" The Lady of Douglas looked at him a moment without speech. "Surely you are not the same who rode away behind my son William. You went out light and gay as David, my other young son. There is now a look of Earl William himself in your face--his mother tells you so. Well, you were suckled at the same breast as he. May a double portion of his spirit rest on you! That lowering regard is the Douglas mark. Follow on and turn not back till you find. Strike and cease not, till all be avenged. I have now no son left to save or to strike. Go, Sholto MacKim. He who is dead loved you and made you knight. I said at the time that you were too young and would have dissuaded him. But when did a Douglas listen to woman's advice--his mother's or his wife's? Foster brother you are--brother you shall be. By this kiss I make you even as my son." She bent and laid her lips on the young man's brow. They were hot as iron uncooled from the smithy anvil. "Come with me," she added, and with a vehemence strangely at odds with her calm of the night before, she took Sholto by the hand and drew him after her into the room that had been Earl William's. From the bundle of keys at her side she took a small one of French design. With this she unlocked a tall cabinet which stood in a corner. She threw the folding doors open, and there in the recess hung a wonderful suit of armour, of the sort called at that time "secret." "This," said the Lady of Douglas, "I had designed for my son. Ten years was it in the making. His father trysted it from a cunning artificer in Italy. All these years has it been perfecting for him. It comes too late. His eyes shall never see it, nor his body wear it. But I give it to you. No Avondale shall ever do it upon him. It will fit you, for you and he were of a bigness. No sword can cut through these links, were it steel of Damascus forged for a Sultan. No spear-thrust can pierce it, though I leave you to avenge the bruise. Yet it will lie soft as silk, concealed and unsuspected under the rags of a beggar or the robes of a king. The cap will turn the edge of an axe, even when swung by a giant's hand, yet it will fit into the lining of a Spanish hat or velvet bonnet. This your present errand may prove more dangerous than you imagine. Go and put it on." Sholto kneeled down and kissed the hand of his liege lady. Then when he had risen she gave him down the armour piece by piece, dusting each with her kerchief with a sort of reverent action, as one might touch the face of the dead. In Sholto's hands it proved indeed light almost as woven cloth of homespun from Dame Barbara's loom, and flexible as the spun silk of Lyons which the great wear next their bodies. With it there went an under-suit of finest and softest leather, that the skin should not be chafed by the cunning links as they worked smoothly over one another at each movement of the body within. Sholto buckled on his lady's gift with a swelling heart. It was his dead master's armour. And as piece by piece fitted him as a glove fits the hand, the spirit of William Douglas seemed to enter more and more into the lad. Then Sholto covered this most valuable gift with his own clothing which he had brought from the house of Carlinwark, and presently emerged, a well-looking but still slim squire of decent family. Then the Countess belted on him the sword of price which went therewith, a blade of matchless Toledan steel, but covered with a plain scabbard of black pigskin. "Draw and thrust," commanded the lady, pointing at the rough stone of the wall at the end of the passage. Sholto looked ruefully at the glittering blade which he held in his hand, flashing blue from point to double guard. "Thrust and fear not," said the Countess of Douglas the second time. Sholto lunged out at the stone with all his might. Fire flew from the smitten blue whinstone where the point, with all the weight of his young body behind it, impinged on the wall. A tingling shock of acutest agony ran up the striker's wrist to the shoulder blade. The sword dropped ringing on the pavement, and Sholto's arm fell numb and useless to his side. "Lift the sword and look," commanded the Lady Douglas. Sholto did as he was bidden, with his left hand, and lo, the point which had bent like a hoop was sharp and straight as if just from the armourer's. "Can you strike with your left hand?" asked the lady. "As with my right," answered the son of Malise the Brawny. There was a bar at a window in the wall bending outward in shape like the letter U. "Then strike a cutting stroke with your left hand." Sholto took the sword. It seemed to him short-sighted policy that in the hour of his departure on a perilous quest he should disable himself in both arms. But Sholto MacKim was not the youth to question an order. He lifted the sword in his left hand, and with a strong ungraceful motion struck with all his might. At first he thought that he had missed altogether. There was no tingling in his arm, no jar when the blade should have encountered the iron. But the Countess was examining the centre of the hoop. "I have missed," said Sholto. "Come hither and look," she said, without turning round. And when he looked, lo, the thick iron had been cut through almost without bending. The sides of the break were fresh, bright, and true. "Now look at the edge of your sword," she said. There was no slightest dint anywhere upon it, so that Sholto, armourer's son as he was, turned about the blade to see if by any chance he could have smitten with the reverse. Failing in this, he could only kneel to his lady and say, "This is a great gift--I am not worthy." For in these times of peril jewels and lands were as nothing to the value of such a suit of armour, which kings and princes might well have made war to obtain. The faintest disembodied ghost of a smile passed over the face of the Countess of Douglas. "It is the best I can do with it now," she said, "and at least no one of the Avondales shall ever possess it." After the Lady Douglas had armed the young knight and sped him upon his quest, Sholto departed over the bridge where the surly custodian still grumbled at his horse's feet trampling his clean wooden flooring. The young man rode a Spanish jennet of good stock, a plain beast to look upon, neither likely to attract attention nor yet to stir cupidity. His father and Laurence were already on their way. Sholto had arranged that whether they found any trace of the lost ones or no, they were all to meet on the third day at the little town of Kirkcudbright. For Sholto, warned by the Lady Sybilla, even at this time had his idea, which, because of the very horror of it, he had as yet communicated to no one. It chanced that as the youth rode southward along the banks of the Dee, glancing this way and that for traces of the missing maids, but seeing only the grass trampled by hundreds of feet and the boats in the stream dragging every pool with grapnels and ropes, two horsemen on rough ponies ambled along some distance in front of him. By their robes of decent brown they seemed merchants on a journey, portly of figure, and consequential of bearing. As Sholto rapidly made up to them, with his better horse and lighter weight, he perceived that the travellers were those two admirable and noteworthy magistrates of Dumfries, Robert Semple and his own uncle Ninian Halliburton of the Vennel. Hearing the clatter of the jennet's hoofs, they turned about suddenly with mighty serious countenances. For in such times when the wayfarer heard steps behind him, whether of man or beast, it repaid him to give immediate attention thereto. So at the sound of hoofs Ninian and his friend set their hands to their thighs and looked over their shoulders more quickly than seemed possible to men of their build. "Ha, nephew Sholto," cried Ninian, exceedingly relieved, "blithe am I to see you, lad. You will tell us the truth of this ill news that has upturned the auld province. By your gloomy face I see that the major part is overtrue. The Earl is dead, and he awes me for twenty-four peck of wheaten meal, forbye ten firlots of malt and other sundries, whilk siller, if these hungry Avondale Douglases come into possession, I am little likely ever to see. Surely I have more cause to mourn him--a fine lad and free with his having. If ye gat not settlement this day, why then ye gat it the neist, with never a word of drawback nor craving for batement." Sholto told them briefly concerning the tragedy of Edinburgh. He had no will for any waste of words, and as briefly thereafter of the loss of the little maid and her companion. The Bailie of Dumfries lifted up his hands in consternation. " 'Tis surely a plot o' thae Avondales. Stra'ven folk are never to lippen to. And they hae made a clean sweep. No a Gallowa' Douglas left, if they hae speerited awa' the bonny bit lass. Man, Robert, she was heir general to the province, baith the Lordship o' Gallowa' and the Earldom o' Wigton, for thae twa can gang to a lassie. But as soon as the twa laddies were oot o' the road, Fat Jamie o' Avondale cam' into the Yerldom o' Douglas and a' the Douglasdale estates, forbye the Borders and the land in the Hielands. Wae's me for Ninian Halliburton, merchant and indweller in Dumfries, he'll never see hilt or hair o' his guid siller gin that wee lassie be lost. Man, Sholto, is't no an awfu' peety?" During this lamentation, to which his nephew paid little attention, looking only from side to side as they three rode among the willows by the waterside, the other merchant, Robert Semple, had been pondering deeply. "How could she be lost in this country of Galloway?" he said, "a land where there are naught but Douglases and men bound body and soul to the Douglas, from Solway even to the Back Shore o' Leswalt? 'Tis just no possible--I'll wager that it is that Hieland gipsy Mistress Lindesay that has some love ploy on hand, and has gane aff and aiblins ta'en the lass wi' her for company." At these words Sholto twisted about in his saddle, as if a wasp had stung him suddenly. "Master Semple," he said, "I would have you speak more carefully. Mistress Lindesay is a baron's daughter and has no love ploys, as you are pleased to call them." The two burgesses shook with jolly significant laughter, which angered Sholto exceedingly. "Your mirth, sirs, I take leave to tell you, is most mightily ill timed," he said, "and I shall consider myself well rid of your company." He was riding away when his uncle set his hand upon the bridle of Sholto's jennet. "Bide ye, wild laddie," he said, "there is nae service in gaun aff like a fuff o' tow. My freend here meaned to speak nae ill o' the lass. But at least I ken o' ae love ploy that Mistress Lindesay is engaged in, or your birses wadna be so ready to stand on end, my bonny man. But guid luck to ye. Ye hae the mair chance o' finding the flown birdies, that ye maybes think mair o' the bonny norland quey than ye think o' the bit Gallowa' calf. But God speed ye, I say, for gin ye bringna back the wee lass that's heir to the braid lands o' Thrieve, it's an ill chance Ninian Halliburton has ever to fill his loof wi' the bonny gowden 'angels' that (next to high heeven) are a man's best freends in an evil and adulterous generation."	{ "id": "17733" }
40	THE MISSION OF JAMES THE GROSS	From all sides the Douglases were marching upon Edinburgh. After the murder of the young lords the city gates had been closed by order of the Chancellor. The castle was put into a thorough state of defence. The camp of the Avondale Douglases, William and James, was already on the Boroughmuir, and the affrighted citizens looked in terror upon the thickening banners with the bloody Douglas heart upon them, and upon the array of stalwart and determined men of the south. Curses both loud and deep were hurled from the besiegers' lines at every head seen above the walls, together with promises to burn Edinburgh, castle and burgh alike, and to slocken the ashes with the blood of every living thing within, all for the cause of the Black Dinner and the Bull's Head set before the brothers of Douglas. But at midnoon of a glorious day in the late September, a man rode out from the west port of the city, a fat man flaccid of body, pale and tallowy of complexion. A couple of serving-men went behind him, with the Douglas arms broidered on their coats. They looked no little terrified, and shook upon their horses, as indeed well they might. This little cavalcade rode directly out of the city gates towards the pavilion of the young Douglases of Avondale. As they went two running footmen kept them company, one on either side of their leader, and as that unwieldy horseman swayed this way and that in the saddle, first one and then the other applied with his open palm the force requisite to keep the rider erect upon his horse. It was the new Earl of Douglas, James the Gross, on his way to visit the camp of his sons. As he approached the sentries who stood on guard upon the broomy braes betwixt Merchiston and Bruntsfield, he was challenged in a fierce southland shout by one of the Carsphairn levies who knew him not. "Stand back there, fat loon, gin ye wantna a quarrel shot intil that swagging tallow-bag ye ca' your wame!" "Out of my way, hill varlet!" cried the man on horseback. But the Carsphairn man stood with his cross-bow pointed straight at the leader of the cavalcade, crying at the same time in a loud, far-carrying voice over his shoulder, "Here awa', Anthon--here awa', Bob! Come and help me to argue wi' this fat rogue." Several other hillmen came hurrying up, and the little company of riders was brought to a standstill. Then ensued this colloquy. "Who are you that dare stop my way?" demanded the Earl. "Wha may ye be that comes shuggy-shooin' oot o' the bluidy city o' Edinburgh intil oor camp," retorted him of Carsphairn, "sitting your beast for all the warld like a lump o' potted-head whammelled oot o' a bowl?" "I am the Earl of Douglas." "The Yerl o' Dooglas! Then a bonny hand they hae made o' him in Edinburgh. I heard they had only beheaded him." "I tell you I am Earl of Douglas. I bid you beware. Conduct me to the tent of my sons!" At this point an aged man of some authority stood forward and gazed intently at James the Gross, looking beneath his hand as at an extensive prospect of which he wished to take in all the details. "Lads," he said, "hold your hands--it rins i' my head that this craitur' may be Jamie, the fat Yerl o' Avondale. We'll let him gang by in peace. His sons are decent lads." There came from the hillmen a chorus of "Avondale he may be--there's nae sayin' what they can breed up there by Stra'ven. But we are weel assured that he is nae richt Douglas. Na, nae Douglas like yon man was ever cradled or buried in Gallowa'." At this moment Lord William Douglas, seeing the commotion on the outposts, came down the brae through the broom. Upon seeing his father he took the plumed bonnet from off his head, and, ordering the Carsphairn men sharply to their places, he set his hand upon the bridle of the gross Earl's horse. So with the two running footmen still preserving some sort of equilibrium in his unsteady bulk, James of Avondale was brought to the door of a tent from which floated the banner of the Douglas house, blue with a bleeding heart upon it. At the entering in of the pavilion, all stained and trodden into the soil by the feet of passers-by, lay the royal banner of the Stewarts, so placed by headstrong James Douglas the younger, in contempt of both tutor and Chancellor, who, being but cowards and murderers, had usurped the power of the king within the realm. That sturdy youth came to the door of his pavilion half-dressed as he had lain down, yawning and stretching reluctantly, for he had been on duty all night perfecting the arrangements for besieging the town. "James--James," cried his father, catching sight of his favourite son rubbing sleepily his mass of crisp hair, "what's this that I hear? That you and William are in rebellion and are defying the power o' the anointed king--?" At this moment the footman undid the girths of his horse, which, being apparently well used to the operation, stood still with its feet planted wide apart. Then they ran quickly round to the side towards which the swaying bulk threatened to fall, the saddle slipped, and, like a top-heavy forest tree, James the Gross subsided into the arms of his attendants, who, straining and panting, presently set him on his feet upon the blazoned royal foot-cloth at the threshold of the pavilion. Almost he had fallen backwards when he saw the use to which his daring sons had put the emblem of royal authority. "Guid save us a', laddies," he cried, staggering across the flag into the tent, "ken ye what ye do? The royal banner o' the King o' Scots--to mak' a floor-clout o'! Sirce, sirce, in three weeks I shall be as childless as the Countess o' Douglas is this day." "That," said William Douglas, coldly, indicating with his finger the trampled cloth, "is not the banner of Scotland, but only that of the Seneschal Stewarts. The King of Scots is but a puling brat, and they who usurp his name are murderous hounds whose necks I shall presently stretch with the rogue's halter!" Young James Douglas had set an oaken folding chair for his father at the upper end of the pavilion, and into this James the Gross fell rather than seated himself. His sons William and James continued to stand before him, as was the dutiful habit of the time. Their father recovered his breath before beginning to speak. "What's this--what's this I hear?" he exclaimed testily, "is it true that ye are in flat rebellion against the lawful authority of the king? Laddies, laddies, ye maun come in wi' me to his excellence the Chancellor and make instanter your obedience. Ye are young and for my sake he will surely overlook this. I will speak with him." "Father," said William Douglas, with a cold firmness in his voice, "we are here to punish the murderers of our cousins. We shall indeed enter the guilty city, but it will be with fire and sword." "Aye," cried rollicking, headstrong James, "and we will roast the Crichton on a spit and hang that smug traitor, Tutor Livingston, over the walls of David's Tower, a bonny ferlie for his leman's wonder!" There came a cunning look into the small pig's eyes of James the Gross. "Na, na, foolish laddies, thae things will ye no do. Mind ye not the taunts and scorns that the Earl--the late Earl o' Douglas that is--put upon us a'? Think on his pride and vainglory, whilk Scripture says shall be brocht low. Think in especial how this righteous judgment that has fallen on him and on his brother has cleared our way to the Earldom." The choleric younger brother leaped forward with an oath on his lips, but his calmer senior kept him back with his hand. "Silence, James!" he said; "I will answer our father. Sir, we have heard what you say, but our minds are not changed. What cause to associate yourself with traitors and mansworn you may have, we do not know and we do not care." At his son's first words James the Gross rose with a sudden surprising access of dignity remarkable in one of his figure. "I bid you remember," he said, speaking southland English, as he was wont to do in moments of excitement, "I bid you remember, sirrah, that I am the Earl of Douglas and Avondale, Justicer of Scotland--and your father." William Douglas bowed, respectful but unmoved. "My lord," he said, "I forget nothing. I do not judge you. You are in authority over our house. You shall do what you will with these forces without there, so be you can convince them of your right. Black murder, whether you knew and approved it or no, has made you Earl of Douglas. But, sir, if you take part with my cousins' murderers now, or screen them from our just vengeance and the vengeance of God, I tell you that from this day you are a man without children. For in this matter I speak not only for myself, but for all your sons!" He turned to his brother. "James," he said, "call in the others." James went to the tent door and called aloud. "Archibald, Hugh, and John, come hither quickly." A moment after three young men of noble build, little more than lads indeed, but with the dark Douglas allure stamped plainly upon their countenances, entered, bowed to their father, and stood silent with their hands crossed upon the hilts of their swords. William Douglas went on with the same determinate and relentless calm. "My lord," he said, very respectfully, "here stand your five sons, all soldiers and Douglases, waiting to hear your will. Murder has been done upon the chief of our house by two men of cowardly heart and mean consideration, Crichton and Livingston, instigated by the false ambassador of the King of France. We have come hither to punish these slayers of our kin, and we desire to know what you, our father, think concerning the matter." James the Gross was still standing, steadying himself with his hand on the arm of the oaken chair in which he had been sitting. He spoke with some difficulty, which might proceed either from emotion or from the plethoric habit of the man. "Have I for this brought children into the world," he said, "that they should lift up their hands against the father that begat them? Ye know that I have ever warned you against the pride and arrogance of your cousins of Galloway." "You mean, of the late Earl of Douglas and the boy his brother," answered William; "the pride of eighteen and fourteen is surely vastly dangerous." "I mean those who have been tried and executed in Edinburgh by royal authority for many well-grounded offences against the state," cried the Earl, loudly. "Will you deign to condescend upon some of them?" said his son, as quietly as before. "Your cousins' pride and ostentation of riches and retinue, being far beyond those of the King, constituted in themselves an eminent danger to the state. Nay, the turbulence of their followers has more than once come before me in my judicial capacity as Justicer of the realm. What more would you have?" "Were you, my lord, of those who condemned them to death?" "Not so, William; it had not been seemly in a near kinsman and the heir to their dignities--that is, save and except Galloway, which by ill chance goes in the female line, if we find not means to break that unfortunate reservation. Your cousins were condemned by my Lords Crichton and Livingston." "We never heard of either of them," said William, calmly. "In their judicial aspect they may be styled lords, as is the Scottish custom," said James the Gross, "even as when I was laird of Balvany and a sitter on the bed of justice, it was my right to be so nominated." "Then our cousins were condemned with your approval, my Lord of Douglas and Avondale?" persisted his son. James the Gross was visibly perturbed. "Approval, William, is not the word to use--not a word to use in the circumstances. They were near kinsmen!" "But upon being consulted you did not openly disapprove--is it not so? And you will not aid us to avenge our cousins' murder now?" "Hearken, William, it was not possible--I could not openly disapprove when I also was in the Chancellor's hands, and I knew not but that he might include me in the same condemnation. Besides, lads, think of the matter calmly. There is no doubt that the thing happens most conveniently, and the event falls out well for us. Our own barren acres have many burdens upon them. What could I do? I have been a poor man all my life, and after the removal of obstacles I saw my way to become the richest man in Scotland. How could I openly object?" William Douglas bowed. "So--" he said, "that is what we desired to know! Have I your permission to speak further?" His father nodded pleasantly, seating himself again as one that has finished a troublesome business. He rubbed his hands together, and smiled upon his sons. "Aye, speak gin ye like, William, but sit doon--sit doon, lads. We are all of one family, and it falls out well for you as it does for me. Let us all be pleasant and agreeable together!" "I thank you, my lord," said his son, "but we will not sit down. We are no longer of one family. We may be your sons in the eye of the law and in natural fact. But from this day no one of us will break bread, speak word, hold intimacy or converse with you. So far as in us lies we will renounce you as our father. We will not, because of the commandment, rise in rebellion against you. You are Earl of Douglas, and while you live must rule your own. But for me and my brothers we will never be your children to honour, your sons to succour, nor your liegemen to fight for you. We go to offer our services to our cousin Margaret, the little Maid of Galloway. We will keep her province with our swords as the last stronghold of the true Douglases of the Black. I have spoken. Fare you well, my lord!" During his son's speech the countenance of the newly made Earl of Douglas grew white and mottled, tallowy white and dull red in turns showing upon it, like the flesh of a drained ox. He rose unsteadily to his feet, moving one hand deprecatingly before him, like a helpless man unexpectedly stricken. His nether lip quivered, pendulous and piteous, in the midst of his grey beard, and for a moment he strove in vain with his utterance. His eyes fell abashed from the cold sternness of his eldest son's glance, and he seemed to scan the countenances of the younger four for any token of milder mood. "James," he said, "ye hear William. Surely ye do not hold with him? Remember I am your father, and I was aye particular fond o' you, Jamie. I mind when ye wad rin to sit astride my shoulder. And ye used to like that fine!" There were tears in the eyes of the weak, cunning, treacherous-hearted man. The lips of James Douglas quivered a little, and his voice failed him, as he strove to answer his father. What he would have said none knows, but ere he could voice a word, the eyes of his brother, stern as the law given to Moses on the mount, were bent upon him. He straightened himself up, and, with a look carefully averted from the palsied man before him, he said, in a steady tone, "What my brother William says, I say." His father looked at him again, as if still hoping against hope for some kinder word. Then he turned to his younger sons. "Archie, Hugh, little Jockie, ye willna take part against your ain faither?" "We hold with our brothers!" said the three, speaking at once. At this moment there came running in at the door of the tent a lad of ten--Henry, the youngest of the Avondale brothers. He stopped short in the midst, glancing wonderingly from one to the other. His little sword with which he had been playing dropped from his hand. James the Gross looked at him. "Harry," he said, "thy brothers are a' for leavin' me. Will ye gang wi' them, or bide wi' your faither?" "Father," said the boy, "I will go with you, if ye will let me help to kill Livingston and the Chancellor!" "Come, laddie," said the Earl, "ye understand not these matters. I will explain to you when we gang back to the braw things in Edinbra' toon!" "No, no," cried the boy, stooping to pick up his sword, "I will bide with my brothers, and help to kill the murderers of my cousins. What William says, I say." Then the five young men went out and called for their horses, their youngest brother following them. And as the flap of the tent fell, and he was left alone, James the Gross sank his head between his soft, moist palms, and sobbed aloud. For he was a weak, shifty, unstable man, loving approval, and a burden to himself in soul and body when left to bear the consequences of his acts. "Oh, my bairns," he cried over and over, "why was I born? I am not sufficient for these things!" And even as he sobbed and mourned, the hoofs of his sons' horses rang down the wind as they rode through the camp towards Galloway. And little Henry rode betwixt William and James.	{ "id": "17733" }
41	THE WITHERED GARLAND	Meanwhile Sholto fared onwards down the side of the sullen water of Dee. The dwellers along the bank were all on the alert, and cried many questions to him about the death of the Earl, most thinking him a merchant travelling from Edinburgh to take ship at Kirkcudbright. Sholto answered shortly but civilly, for the inquirers were mostly decent folk well on in years, whose lads had gone to the levy, and who naturally desired to know wherefore their sons had been summoned. In return he asked everywhere for news of any cavalcade which might have passed that way, but neither from the country folk, nor yet from hoof-marks upon the grassy banks, could he glean the least information pertinent to the purpose of his quest. Not till he came within a few miles of the town did he meet with man or woman who could give him any material assistance. It was by the Fords of Tongland that he first met with one Tib MacLellan, who with much volubility and some sagacity retailed fresh fish to the burghers of Kirkcudbright and the whole countryside, giving a day to each district so long as the supply of her staple did not fail. "Fair good day to ye, mistress!" said Sholto, taking off his bonnet to the sonsy upstanding fishwife. "And to you, bonny lad," replied the complimented dame, dropping a courtesy, "may the corbie never cry at ye nor ill-faured pie juik at your left elbow. May candle creesh never fa' on ye, red fire burn ye, nor water scald ye." Tib was reeling off her catalogue of blessings when Sholto cut her short. "Can you tell me, good lady," he asked, in his most insinuating tones, "if there has been any vessel cleared from the port during these last weeks?" " 'Deed, sir, that I should ken, for is no my ain sister marriet on Jock Wabster, wha's cousin by marriage twice removed is the bailie officer o' the port? So I can advise ye that there was a boat frae the Isle o' Man wi' herrin's for the great houses, though never a fin o' them like the halesome fish I carry here in my creel. Wad ye like to see them, to buy a dozen for the bonny lass that's waiting for ye? That were a present to recommend ye, indeed--far mair than your gaudy flowers, fule ballads, and sic like trash!" "You cannot remember any other ship of larger size than the Manx fishing-boat?" continued Sholto. "Weel, no to ca' cleared frae the port," Tib went on, "but there was a pair o' uncanny-looking foreign ships that lay oot there by the Manxman's Lake for eight days, and the nicht afore yestreen they gaed oot with the tide. They were saying aboot the foreshore that they gaed west to some other port to tak' on board the French monzie that cam' to the Thrieve at the great tournaying! But I kenna what wad tak' him awa' to the Fleet or the Ferry Toon o' Cree, and leave a' the pleasures o' Kirkcudbright ahint him. Forbye sic herrin's as are supplied by me, Tib MacLellan, at less than cost price--as I houp your honour will no forget, when in the course o' natur' and the providence o' God you and her comes to hae a family atween ye." Sholto promised that he would not forget when the time alluded to arrived. Then, turning his jennet off the direct road to Kirkcudbright town, and betaking him through the Ardendee fords, he made all speed towards a little port upon the water of Fleet, at the point where that fair moorland stream winds lazily through the water-meadows for a mile or two, after its brawling passage down from the hills of heather and before it commits itself to the mother sea. But it was not until he had long crossed it and reached the lonely Cassencary shore that Sholto found his first trace of the lost maidens. For as he rode along the cliffs his keen eye noted a well-marked trail through the heather approaching the shore at right angles to his own line of march. The tracks, still perfectly evident in the grassy places, showed that as many as twenty horses had passed that way within the last two or three days. He stood awhile examining the marks, and then, leading his beast slowly by the bridle, he continued to follow them westward till they became confused and lost near a little jetty erected by the lairds of Cree and Cassencary for convenience of traffic with Cumberland and the Isle of Man. Here on the very edge of the foreshore, blown by some chance wind behind a stone and wonderfully preserved there, Sholto found a child's chain of woodbine entwined with daisies and autumnal pheasant's eye. He took it up and examined it. Some of the flowers were not yet withered. The inter-weaving was done after a fashion he had taught the little Maid of Galloway himself, one happy day when he had walked on air with the glamour of Maud Lindesay's smiles uplifting his heart. For that tricksome grace had asked him to teach her also, and he remembered the lingering touch of her fingers ere she could compass the quaint device of the pheasant's eye peeping out from the midst of each white festoon. Then a deep despair settled down on Sholto's spirit. He knew that Maud Lindesay and the fair Maid of Galloway had undoubtedly fallen into the power of the terrible Marshal de Retz, Sieur of Machecoul, ambassador of the King of France, and also many things else which need not in this place be put on record.	{ "id": "17733" }
42	ASTARTE THE SHE-WOLF	In a dark wainscoted room overlooking that branch of the Seine which divides the northern part of Paris from the Isle of the City, Gilles de Retz, lately Chamberlain of the King of France, sat writing. The hotel had recently been redecorated after the sojourn of the English. Wooden pavements had again been placed in the rooms where the barbarians had strewed their rushes and trampled upon their rotting fishbones. Noble furniture from the lathes of Poitiers, decorated with the royal ermines of Brittany, stood about the many alcoves. The table itself whereon the famous soldier wrote was closed in with drawers and shelves which descended to the floor and seemed to surround the occupant like a cell. Before de Retz stood a curious inkstand, made by some cunning jeweller out of the upper half of a human skull of small size, cut across at the eye-holes, inverted, and set in silver with a rim of large rubies. This was filled with ink of a startling vermilion colour. The document which Gilles de Retz was busy transcribing upon sheets of noble vellum in this strange ink was of an equally mysterious character. The upper part had the appearance of a charter engrossed by the hand of some deft legal scribe, but the words which followed were as startling as the vehicle by means of which they were made to stand out from the vellum. "Unto Barran-Sathanas; Lord most glorious and puissant in hell beneath and in the earth above, I, his unworthy servitor Gilles de Retz, make my vows, hereby forever renouncing God, Christ, and the Blessed Saints." To this appalling introduction succeeded many lines of close and delicate script, interspersed with curious cabalistic signs, in which that of the cross reversed could frequently be detected. Gilles de Retz wrote rapidly, rising only at intervals to throw a fresh log of wood across the vast iron dogs on either side of the wide fireplace, as the rain from the northwest beat more and more fiercely upon the small glazed panes of the window and howled among the innumerable gargoyles and twisted roof-stacks of the Hotel de Pornic. Within the chamber itself, in the intervals of the storm, a low continuous growling made itself evident. At first it was disregarded by the writer, but presently, by its sheer pertinacity, the sound so irritated him that he rose from his seat, and, striding to a narrow door covered with a heavy curtain, he threw it wide open to the wall. Then through the black oblong so made, a huge and shaggy she-wolf slouched slowly into the room. The marshal kicked the brute impatiently with his slippered foot as she entered, and, strange to relate, the wolf slunk past him with the cowed air of a dog conscious of having deserved punishment. "Astarte, vilest beast," he cried, "have I not a thousand times warned you to be silent and wait outside when I am at work within my chamber?" The she-wolf eyed her master as he went back towards his table. Then, seeing him lift his pen, with a sigh of content she dropped down upon the warm hearthstone, lying with her haunches towards the blazing logs and her bristling head couched upon her paws. Her yellow shining eyes blinked sleepily and approvingly at him, while with her tongue she rasped the soft pads of her feet one by one, biting away the fur from between the toes with her long and gleaming teeth. Presently Astarte appeared to doze off. Her eyes were shut, her attitude relaxed. But so soon as ever her master moved even an inch to consult a marked list of dates which hung on a hook beside him, or leaned over to dip a quill in his scarlet ink, the flashing yellow eye and the gleam of white teeth underneath told that Astarte was awake and intently watching every movement of the worker. Through the heavy boom of the storm without, the thresh of the rain upon the lattice casement, and the irregular whipping gusts which shook the house, the soft wheeze of the engrossing quill could be heard, the crackle of the burning logs and the heavy regular breathing of the couchant she-wolf being the only other sounds audible within the apartment. Gilles de Retz wrote on, smiling to himself as he added line after line to his manuscript. His beard shone with a truculent blue-black lustre. For the moment the aged look had quite gone out of his face. His cheek appeared flushed with the hues of youth and reinvigorated hope, yet withal of a youth without innocence or charm. Rather it seemed as if fresh blood had been injected into the veins of some aged demon, moribund and cruel, giving, instead of health or grace, only a new lease of cruelty and lust. Presently another door opened, the main entrance of the apartment this time, not the small private portal through which Astarte the wolf had been admitted. A girl came in, thrusting aside the curtain, and, for the space of a moment, holding it outstretched with an arm gowned in pure white before dropping it with a rustle of heavy silken fabric upon the ground. The Marshal de Retz wrote on without appearing to be conscious of any new presence in his private chamber. The girl stood regarding him, with eyes that blazed with an intent so deadly and a hate so all-possessing that the yellow treachery in those of Astarte the she-wolf appeared kind and affectionate by contrast. At the girl's entrance that shaggy beast had raised herself upon her fore paws, and presently she gave vent to a low growl, half of distrust and half of warning, which at once reached the ears of the busy worker. Gilles de Retz looked up quickly, and, catching sight of the Lady Sybilla, with a sweep of his hand he thrust his manuscript into an open drawer of the escritoire. "Ah, Sybilla," he said, leaning back in his chair with an air of easy familiarity, "you are more sparing of your visits to me than of yore. To what do I owe the pleasure and honour of this one?" The girl eyed him long before answering. She stood statue-still by the curtain at the entrance of the apartment, ignoring the chair which the marshal had offered her with a bow and a courteous wave of his hand. "I have come," she made answer at last, in the deep even tones which she had used before the council of the traitors at Stirling, "to demand from you, Messire Gilles de Retz, what you mean to do with the little Margaret Douglas and her companion, whom you wickedly kidnapped from their own country and have brought with you in your train to France?" "I have satisfaction in informing you," replied the marshal, suavely, "that it is my purpose to dispose of both these agreeable young ladies entirely according to my own pleasure." The girl caught at her breast with her hand, as if to stay a sudden spasm of pain. "Not at Tiffauges--" she gasped, "not at Champtocé?" The marshal leaned back, enjoying her terror, as one tastes in slow sips a rare brand of wine. He found the flavour of her fears delicious. "No, Sybilla," he replied at last, "neither at Champtocé nor yet at Tiffauges--for the present, that is, unless some of your Scottish friends come over to rescue them out of my hands." "How, then, do you intend to dispose of them?" she urged. "I shall send them to your puking sister and her child, hiding their heads and sewing their samplers at Machecoul. What more can you ask? Surely the young and fair are safe in such worthy society, even if they may chance to find it a little dull." "How can I believe him, or know that for once he will forego his purposes of hell?" Sybilla murmured, half to herself. The Marshal de Retz smiled, if indeed the contraction of muscles which revealed a line of white teeth can be called by that name. In the sense in which Astarte would have smiled upon a defenceless sheepfold, so Gilles de Retz might have been said to smile at his visitor. "You may believe me, sweet Lady Sybilla," said the marshal, "because there is one vice which it is needless for me to practise in your presence, that of uncandour. I give you my word that unless your friends come worrying me from the land of Scots, the maids shall not die. Perhaps it were better to warn any visitors that even at Machecoul we are accustomed to deal with such cases. Is it not so, Astarte?" At the sound of her name the huge wolf rose slowly, and, walking to her master's knee, she nosed upon him like a favourite hound. "And if your intent be not that which causes fear to haunt the precincts of your palaces like a night-devouring beast, and makes your name an execration throughout Brittany and the Vendée, why have you carried the little child and the other pretty fool forth from their country? Was it not enough that you should slay the brothers? Wherefore was it necessary utterly to cut off the race of the Douglases?" "Sybilla, dear sister of my sainted Catherine," purred the marshal, "it is your privilege that you should speak freely. When it is pleasing to me I may even answer you. It pleases me now, listen--you know of my devotion to science. You are not ignorant at what cost, at what vast sacrifices, I have in secret pushed my researches beyond the very confines of knowledge. The powers of the underworlds are revealing themselves to me, and to me alone. Evil and good alike shall be mine. I alone will pluck the blossom of fire, and tear from hell and hell's master their cherished mystery." He paused as if mentally to recount his triumphs, and then continued. "But at the moment of success I am crossed by a prejudice. The ignorant people clamour against my life--_canaille_! I regard them not. But nevertheless their foolish prejudices reach other ears. Hearken!" And like a showman he beckoned Sybilla to the window. A low roar of human voices, fitful yet sustained, made itself distinctly audible above the shriller hooting of the tempest. "Open the window!" he commanded, standing behind the curtain. The girl unhasped the brazen hook and looked out. Beneath her a little crowd of poor people had collected about a woman who was beating with bleeding hands upon the shut door of the Hotel de Pornic. "Justice! justice!" cried the woman, her hands clasped and her long black hair streaming down her shoulders, "give me my child, my little Pierre. Yester-eve he was enticed into the monster's den by his servant Poitou, and I shall never see him more! Give me my boy, murderer! Restore me my son!" And the answering roar of the people's voices rose through the open window to the ears of the marshal. "Give the woman her son, Gilles de Retz!" At that moment the woman caught sight of Sybilla. Instantly she changed her tone from entreaty to fierce denunciation. "Behold the witch, friends, let us tear her to pieces. She is kept young and beautiful by drinking the blood of children. Throw thyself down, Jezebel, that the dogs may eat thee in the streets." And a shout went up from the populace as Sybilla shut to the window, shuddering at the horrors which surrounded her. The Marshal de Retz had not moved, watching her face without regarding the noise outside. Now he went back to his chair, and bending his slender white fingers together, he looked up at her. Presently he struck a silver bell by his side three times, and the mellow sound pervaded the house. Poitou appeared instantly at the inner door through which the she-wolf had entered. "How does it go?" asked the marshal, with his usual careless easy grace. "Not well," said Poitou, shaking his head; "that is, rightly up to a point, and then--all wrong!" For the first time the countenance of the marshal appeared troubled. "And I was sure of success this time. We must try them younger. It is all so near, yet, strangely it escapes us. Well, Poitou, I shall come in a little when I have finished with this lady. Tell De Sillé to expect me." Poitou bowed respectfully and was withdrawing, too well trained to smile or even lift his eyes to where Sybilla stood by the window. His master appeared to recollect himself. "A moment, Poitou--there are some troublesome people of the city rabble at the door. Bid the guard turn out, and thrust them away. Tell them to strike not too gently with the flats of their swords and the butts of their spears." Gilles de Retz listened for some time after the disappearance of his familiar. Presently the low droning note of popular execration changed into sharper exclamations of hatred, mingled with cries of pain. Then the marshal smiled, and rubbed his hands lightly one over the other. "That's my good lads," he said; "hear the rattle of the spear-hilts upon the paving-stones? They are bringing the butts into close acquaintance with certain very ill-shod feet. Ah, now they are gone!" The marshal took a long breath and went on, half to himself and half to Sybilla. "But I own it is all most inconvenient," he said, thoughtfully. "Here in Paris, in King Charles's country, it does not so greatly matter. For the affair in Scotland has set me right with the King and in especial with the Dauphin. By the death of the Douglases I have given back the duchy of Touraine to the kings of France after three generations. I have therefore well earned the right to be allowed to seek knowledge in mine own way." "The service of the devil is a poor way to knowledge," said the girl. "Ah, there it is," said the marshal, raising his hand with gentle deprecation, "even you, who are so highly privileged, are not wholly superior to vulgar prejudice. I keep a college of priests for the service of God and the Virgin. They have done me but little good. Surely therefore I may be allowed a little service of That Other, who has afforded me such exquisite pleasure and aided me so much. The Master of Evil knows all things, and he can help whom he will to the secrets of wealth, of power, and of eternal youth." "Have you gained any of these by the aid of that Master whom you serve?" asked the Lady Sybilla, with great quiet in her voice. "Nay, not yet," cried the marshal, moved for the first time, "not yet--perhaps because I have sought too eagerly and hotly. But I am now at least within sight of the wondrous goal. See," he added, with genuine excitement labouring in his voice, "see--I am still a young man, yet though I, Gilles de Retz, was born to the princeliest fortune in France, and by marriage added another, they have both been spent well nigh to the last stiver in learning the hidden secrets of the universe. I am still a young man, I say, but look at my whitening hair, count the deep wrinkles on my forehead, consider my withered cheek. Have I not tasted all agonies, renounced all delights, and cast aside all scruples that I might win back my youth, and with it the knowledge of good and evil?" Sybilla went to the door and stood again by the curtain. "Then you swear by your own God that you will let no evil befall the Scottish maids?" she said. "I have told you already--let that suffice!" he replied with sudden coldness; "you know that, like the Master whom I serve, I can keep my word. I will not harm them, so long as their Scottish kinsfolk come not hither meddling with my purposes. I have enough of meddlers in France without adding outlanders thereto! I cannot keep a new and permanent danger at grass within my gates." The Lady Sybilla passed through the portal by which she had entered, without adieu or leave-taking of any kind. Gilles de Retz rose as soon as the curtain had fallen, and shook himself with a yawn, like one who has got through a troublesome necessary duty. Then he walked to the window and looked out. The woman had come back and was kneeling before the Hotel de Pornic. [Illustration: A BRIGHT LIGHT AS OF A FURNACE BURNT UP BEFORE HIM, AND THE HEAT WAS OVERPOWERING AS IT RUSHED LIKE A RUDDY TIDE-RACE AGAINST HIS FACE.] At sight of him she cried with sudden shrillness, "My lord, my great lord, give me back my child--my little Pierre. He is my heart's heart. My lord, he never did you any harm in all his innocent life!" The Marshal de Retz shut the window with a shrug of protest against the vulgarity of prejudice. He did not notice four men in the garb of pilgrims who stood in the dark of a doorway opposite. "This is both unnecessary and excessively discomposing," he muttered; "I fear Poitou has not been judicious enough in his selections." He turned towards the private door, and as he did so Astarte the she-wolf rose and silently followed him with her head drooped forward. He went along a dark passage and pushed open a little iron door. A bright light as of a furnace burnt up before him, and the heat was overpowering as it rushed like a ruddy tide-race against his face. "Well, Poitou, does it go better?" he said cheerfully, "or must we try them of the other sex and somewhat younger, as I at first proposed?" He let the door slip back, and the action of a powerful spring shut out Astarte. Whereat she sat down on her haunches in the dark of the passage, and showed her gleaming teeth in a grin, as, with cocked ears, she listened to the sounds from within the secret laboratory of the Marshal de Retz.	{ "id": "17733" }
43	MALISE FETCHES A CLOUT	The four men whom the Messire Gilles, by good fortune, failed to see standing in the doorway opposite the Hotel de Pornic were attired in the habit of pilgrims to the shrine of Saint James of Compostella. Upon their heads they wore broad corded hats of brown. Long brown robes covered them from head to foot. Their heads were tonsured, and as they went along they fumbled at their beads and gave their benediction to the people that passed by, whether they returned them an alms or not. This they did by spreading abroad the fingers of both hands and inclining their heads, at the same time muttering to themselves in a tongue which, if not Latin, was at least equally unknown to the good folk of Paris. "It is the house," said the tallest of the four, "stand well back within the shade!" "Nay, Sholto, what need?" grumbled another, a very thickset palmer he; "if the maids be within, let us burst the gates, and go and take them out!" "Be silent, Malise," put in the third pilgrim, whose dress of richer stuff than that of his companions, added to an air of natural command, betrayed the man of superior rank, "remember, great jolterhead, that we are not at the gates of Edinburgh with all the south country at our backs." The fourth, a slender youth and fresh of countenance, stood somewhat behind the first three, without speaking, and wore an air of profound meditation and abstraction. It is not difficult to identify three out of the four. Sholto's quest for his sweetheart was a thing fixed and settled. That his father and his brother Laurence should accompany him was also to be expected. But the other and more richly attired was somewhat less easy to be certified. The Lord James of Douglas it was, who spoke French with the idiomatic use and easy accentuation of a native, albeit of those central provinces which had longest owned the sway of the King of France. The brothers MacKim also spoke the language of the country after a fashion. For many Frenchmen had come over to Galloway in the trains of the first two Dukes of Touraine, so that the Gallic speech was a common accomplishment among the youths who sighed to adventure where so many poor Scots had won fortune, in the armies of the Kings of France. Indeed, throughout the centuries Paris cannot be other than Paris. And Paris was more than ever Paris in the reign of Charles the Seventh. Her populace, gay, fickle, brave, had just cast off the yoke of the English, and were now venting their freedom from stern Saxon policing according to their own fashion. Not the King of France, but the Lord of Misrule held the sceptre in the capital. It was not long therefore before a band of rufflers swung round a corner arm-in-arm, taking the whole breadth of the narrow causeway with them as they came. It chanced that their leader espied the four Scots standing in the wide doorway of the house opposite the Hotel de Pornic. "Hey, game lads," he cried, in that roistering shriek which then passed for dashing hardihood among the youth of Paris, "here be some holy men, pilgrims to the shrine of Saint Denis, I warrant. I, too, am a clerk of a sort, for Henriet tonsured me on Wednesday sennight. Let us see if these men of good works carry any of the deceitful vanities of earth about with them in their purses. Sometimes such are not ill lined!" The youths accepted the proposal of their leader with alacrity. "Let us have the blessing of the holy palmers," they cried, "and eke the contents of their pockets!" So with a gay shout, and in an evil hour for themselves, they bore down upon the four Scots. "Good four evangelists," cried the youth who had spoken first--a tall, ill-favoured, and sallow young man in a cloak of blue lined with scarlet, swaggering it with long strides before the others, "tell us which of you four is Messire Matthew. For, being a tax-gatherer, he will assuredly have money of his own, and besides, since the sad death of your worthy friend Judas, he must have succeeded him as your treasurer." "This is the keeper of our humble store, noble sir," answered the Lord James Douglas, quietly, indicating the giant Malise with his left hand, "but spare him and us, I pray you courteously!" "Ha, so," mocked the tall youth, turning to Malise, "then the gentleman of the receipt of custom hath grown strangely about the chest since he went a-wandering from Galilee!" And he reached forward his hand to pull away the cloak which hung round the great frame of the master armourer. Malise MacKim understood nothing of his words or of his intent, but without looking at his tormentor or any of the company, he asked of James Douglas, in a voice like the first distant mutterings of a thunder-storm, "Shall I clout him?" "Nay, be patient, Malise, I bid you. This is an ill town in which to get rid of a quarrel once begun. Be patient!" commanded James Douglas under his breath. "We are clerks ourselves," the swarthy youth went on, "and we have come to the conclusion that such holy palmers as you be, men from Burgundy or the Midi, as I guess by your speech, Spaniards by your cloaks and this good tax-gatherer's beard, ought long ago to have taken the vows of poverty. If not, you shall take them now. For, most worthy evangelistic four, be it known unto you that I am Saint Peter and can loose or bind. So turn out your money-bags. Draw your blades, limber lads!" Whereupon his companions with one accord drew their swords and advanced upon the Scots. These stood still without moving as if they had been taken wholly unarmed. "Shall I clout them now?" rumbled Malise the second time, with an anxious desire in his voice. "Bide a wee yet," whispered the Lord James; "we will try the soft answer once more, and if that fail, why then, old Samson, you may clout your fill." " _His_ fill!" corrected Malise, grimly. "Your pardon, good gentlemen," said James of Douglas aloud to the spokesman, "we are poor men and travel with nothing but the merest necessities--of which surely you would not rob us." "Nay, holy St. Luke," mocked the swarthy one, "not rob. That is an evil word--rather we would relieve you of temptation for your own souls' good. You are come for your sins to Paris. You know that the love of money is the root of all evil. So in giving to us who are clerks of Paris you will not lose your ducats, but only contribute of your abundance to Holy Mother Church. I am a clerk, see--I do not deceive you! I will both shrive and absolve you in return for the filthy lucre!" And, commanding one of his rabble to hold a torch close to his head, he uncovered and showed a tonsured crown. "And if we refuse?" said Lord James, quietly. "Then, good Doctor Luke," answered the youth, "we are ten to four--and it would be our sad duty to send you all to heaven and then ease your pockets, lest, being dead, some unsanctified passer-by might be tempted to steal your money." "Surely I may clout him now?" came again like the nearer growl of a lion from Malise the smith. Seeing the four men apparently intimidated and without means of defence, the ten youths advanced boldly, some with swords in their right hands and torches in their left, the rest with swords and daggers both. The Scots stood silent and firm. Not a weapon showed from beneath a cloak. "Down on your knees!" cried the leader of the young roisterers, and with his left hand he thrust a blazing torch into the grey beard of Malise. There was a quick snort of anger. Then, with a burst of relief and pleasure, came the words, "By God, I'll clout him now!" The sound of a mighty buffet succeeded, something cracked like a broken egg, and the clever-tongued young clerk went down on the paving-stones with a clatter, as his torch extinguished itself in the gutter and his sword flew ringing across the street. "Come on, lads--they have struck the first blow. We are safe from the law. Kill them every one!" cried his companions, advancing to the attack with a confidence born of numbers and the consciousness of fighting on their own ground. But ere they reached the four men who had waited so quietly, the Scots had gathered their cloaks about their left arms in the fashion of shields, and a blade, long and stout, gleamed in every right hand. Still no armour was to be seen, and, though somewhat disconcerted, the assailants were by no means dismayed. "Come on--let us revenge De Sillé!" they cried. "Lord, Lord, this is gaun to be a sair waste o' guid steel," grumbled Malise; "would that I had in my fist a stieve oaken staff out of Halmyre wood. Then I could crack their puir bit windlestaes o' swords, without doing them muckle hurt! Laddies, laddies, be warned and gang decently hame to your mithers before a worse thing befall. James, ye hae their ill-contrived lingo, tell them to gang awa' peaceably to their naked beds!" For, having vented his anger in the first buffet, Malise was now somewhat remorseful. There was no honour in such fighting. But all unwarned the youthful roisterers of Paris advanced. This was a nightly business with them, and indeed on such street robberies of strangers and shopkeepers the means of continuing their carousings depended. It chanced that at the first brunt of the attack Sholto, who was at the other end of the line from his father, had to meet three opponents at once. He kept them at bay for a minute by the quickness of his defence, but being compelled to give back he was parrying a couple of their blades in front, when the third got in a thrust beneath his arm. It was as if the hostile sword had stricken a stone wall. The flimsy and treacherous blade went to flinders, and the would-be robber was left staring at the guard suddenly grown light in his hand. With a quick backward step, Sholto slashed his last assailant across the upper arm, effectually disabling him. Then, catching his heel in a rut, he fell backward, and it would have gone ill with him but for the action of his father. The brawny one was profoundly disgusted at having to waste his strength and science upon such a rabble, and now, at the moment of his son's fall, he suddenly dropped his sword and seized a couple of torches which had fallen upon the pavement. With these primitive weapons he fell like a whirlwind upon the foe, taking them unexpectedly in flank. A sweep of his mighty arms right and left sent two of the assailants down, one with the whole side of his face scarified from brow to jaw, and the other with his mouth at once widened by the blow and hermetically closed by the blazing tar. Next, Sholto's pair of assailants received each a mighty buffet and went down with cracked sconces. The rest, seeing this revolving and decimating fire-mill rushing upon them as Malise waved the torches round his head, turned tail and fled incontinently into the narrow alleys which radiated in all directions from the Hotel de Pornic.	{ "id": "17733" }
44	LAURENCE TAKES NEW SERVICE	"Look to them well, Malise," said the Lord James; "'twas you who did the skull-cracking at any rate. See if your leechcraft can tell us if any of these young rogues are likely to die. I would not have their deaths on my conscience if I can avoid it." First picking up and sheathing his sword, then bidding Sholto hold a torch, Malise turned the youths over on their backs. Four of them grunted and complained of the flare of the light in their eyes, like men imperfectly roused from sleep. "Thae loons will be round in half an hour," said Malise, confidently. "But they will hae richt sair heads the morn, I'se warrant, and some o' them may be marked aboot the chafts for a Sabbath or twa!" But the swarthy youth whom the others called De Sillé, he who had been spokesman and who had fallen first, was more seriously injured. He had worn a thin steel cap on his head, which had been cracked by the buffet he had received from the mighty fist of the master armourer. The broken pieces had made a wound in the skull, from which blood flowed freely. And in the uncertain light of the torch Malise could not make any prolonged examination. "Let us tak' the callant up to the tap o' the hoose," he said at last; "we can put him in the far ben garret till we see if he is gaun to turn up his braw silver-taed shoon." Without waiting for any permission or dissent, the smith of Carlinwark tucked his late opponent under his arm as easily as an ordinary man might carry a puppy. Then, sheathing their swords, the other three Scots made haste to leave the place, for the gleaming of lanthorns could already be seen down the street, which might either mark the advent of the city watch or the return of the enemy with reinforcements. It was to a towering house with barred windows and great doors that the four Scots retreated. Entering cautiously by a side portal, Malise led the way with his burden. This mansion had been the town residence of the first Duke of Touraine, Archibald the Tineman. It had been occupied by the English for military purposes during their tenancy of the city, and now that they were gone, it had escaped by its very dilapidation the fate of the other possessions of the house of Douglas in France. James Douglas had obtained the keys from Gervais Bonpoint, the trusty agent of the Avondales in Paris, who also attended to the foreign concerns of most others of the Scottish nobility. So the four men had taken possession, none saying them nay, and, indeed, in the disordered state of the government, but few being aware of their presence. Upon an old bedstead hastily covered with plaids, Malise proceeded to make his prisoner comfortable. Then, having washed the wound and carefully examined it by candlelight, he pronounced his verdict: "The young cheat-the-wuddie will do yet, and live to swing by the lang cord about his craig!" Which, when interpreted in the vulgar, conveyed at once an expectation of a life to be presently prolonged to the swarthy de Sillé, but after a time to be cut suddenly short by the hangman. Every day James Douglas and Sholto haunted the precincts of the Hotel de Pornic and made certain that its terrible master had not departed. Malise wished to leave Paris and proceed at once to the De Retz country, there to attempt in succession the marshal's great castles of Machecoul, Tiffauges, and Champtocé, in some one of which he was sure that the stolen maids must be immured. But James Douglas and Sholto earnestly dissuaded him from the adventure. How did they know (they reminded him) in which to look? They were all fortresses of large extent, well garrisoned, and it was as likely as not that they might spend their whole time fruitlessly upon one, without gaining either knowledge or advantage. Besides, they argued it was not likely that any harm would befall the maids so long as their captor remained in Paris--that is, none which had not already overtaken them on their journey as prisoners on board the marshal's ships. So the Hotel de Pornic and its inhabitants remained under the strict espionage of Sholto and Lord James, while up in the garret in the Rue des Ursulines Laurence nursed his brother clerk and Malise sat gloomily polishing and repolishing the weapons and secret armour of the party. It was the evening of the third day before the "clout" showed signs of healing. Its recipient had been conscious on the second day, but, finding himself a prisoner in the hands of the enemy, he had been naturally enough inclined to be a little sulky and suspicious. But the bright carelessness of Laurence, who dashed at any speech in idiomatic but ungrammatical outlander's French, gradually won upon him. As also the fact that Laurence was clerk-learned and could sing and play upon the viol with surprising skill for one so young. The prisoner never tired of watching the sunny curls upon the brow of Laurence MacKim, as he wandered about trying the benches, the chairs, and even the floor in a hundred attitudes in search of a comfortable position. "Ah," the sallow youth said at last, one afternoon as he lay on his pallet, "you should be one of the choristers of my master's chapel. You can sing like an angel!" "Well," laughed Laurence in reply, "I would be indeed content, if he be a good master, and if in his house it snoweth wherewithal to eat and drink. But tell me what unfortunate may have the masterage of so profitless a servant as yourself?" "I am the poor gentleman Gilles de Sillé of the household of the Marshal de Retz!" answered the swarthy youth, readily. "De Silly indeed to bide with such a master!" quoth Laurence, with his usual prompt heedlessness of consequences. The sallow youth with his bandaged head did not understand the poor jest, but, taking offence at the tone, he instantly reared himself on his elbow and darted a look at Laurence from under brows so lowering and searching that Laurence fell back in mock terror. "Nay," he cried, shaking at the knees and letting his hands swing ludicrously by his sides, "do not affright a poor clerk! If you look at me like that I will call the cook from yonder eating-stall to protect me with his basting-ladle. I wot if he fetches you one on the other side of your cracked sconce, you will never take service again with the Marshal de Retz." "What know you of my master?" reiterated Gilles de Sillé, glowering at his mercurial jailer, without heeding his persiflage. "Why, nothing at all," said Laurence, truthfully, "except that while we stood listening to the singing of the choir within his hotel, a poor woman came crying for her son, whom (so she declared) the marshal had kidnapped. Whereat came forth the guard from within, and thrust her away. Then arrived you and your varlets and got your heads broken for your impudence. That is all I know or want to know of your master." Gilles de Sillé lay back on his pallet with a sigh, still, however, continuing to watch the lad's countenance. "You should indeed take service with the marshal. He is the most lavish and generous master alive. He thinks no more of giving a handful of gold pieces to a youth with whom he is taken than of throwing a crust to a beggar at his gate. He owns the finest province in all the west from side to side. He has castles well nigh a dozen, finer and stronger than any in France. He has a college of priests, and the service at his oratory is more nobly intoned than that in the private chapel of the Holy Father himself. When he goes in procession he has a thurifer carried before him by the Pope's special permission. And I tell you, you are just the lad to take his fancy. That I can see at a glance. I warrant you, Master Laurence, if you will come with me, the marshal will make your fortune." "Did the other young fellow make his fortune?" said Laurence. Gilles de Sillé glared as if he could have slain him. "What other?" he growled, truculently. "Why, the son of the poor woman who cried beneath your kind master's window the night before yestreen'." The lank swarthy youth ground his teeth. " 'Tis ill speaking against dignities," he replied presently, with a certain sullen pride. "I daresay the young fellow took service with the marshal to escape from home, and is in hiding at Tiffauges, or mayhap Machecoul itself. Or he may well have been listening at some lattice of the Hotel de Pornic itself to the idiot clamour of his mother and of the ignorant rabble of Paris!" "Your master loves the society of the young?" queried Laurence, mending carefully a string of his viol and keeping the end of the catgut in his mouth as he spoke. "He doats on all young people," answered Gilles de Sillé, eagerly, the flicker of a smile running about his mouth like wild-fire over a swamp. "Why, when a youth of parts once takes service with my master, he never leaves it for any other, not even the King's!" Which in its way was a true enough statement. "Well," quoth Master Laurence, when he had tied his string and finished cocking his viol and twingle-twangling it to his satisfaction, "you speak well. And I am not sure but what I may think of it. I am tired both of working for my father without pay, and of singing psalms in a monastery to please my lord Abbot. Moreover, in this city of Paris I have to tell every jack with a halbert that I am not the son of the King of England, and then after all as like as not he marches me to the bilboes!" "Of what nativity are you?" asked de Sillé. "Och, I'm all of a rank Irelander, and my name is Laurence O'Halloran, at your service," quoth the rogue, without a blush. For among other accomplishments which he had learned at the Abbey of Dulce Cor, was that of lying with the serene countenance of an angel. Indeed, as we have seen, he had the rudiments of the art in him before setting out from the tourneying field at Glenlochar on his way to holy orders. "Then you will come with me to-morrow?" said Gilles, smiling. Laurence listened to make sure that neither his father nor Sholto was approaching the garret. "I will go with you on two conditions," he said: "you shall not mention my purpose to the others, and when we escape, I must put a bandage over your eyes till we are half a dozen streets away." "Why, done with you--after all you are a right gamesome cock, my Irelander," cried Gilles, whom the conditions pleased even better than Laurence's promise to accompany him. Then, lending the prisoner his viol wherewith to amuse himself and locking the door, Laurence made an excuse to go to the kitchen, where he laughed low to himself, chuckling in his joy as he deftly handled the saucepans. "Aha, Master Sholto, you are the captain of the guard and a knight, forsooth, and I am but poor clerk Laurence--as you have ofttimes reminded me. But I will show you a shift worth two of watching outside the door of the marshal's hotel for tidings of the maids. I will go where the marshal goes, and see all he sees. And then, when the time comes, why, I will rescue them single-handed and thereafter make up my mind which of them I shall marry, whether Sholto's sweetheart or the Fair Maid of Galloway herself." Thus headlong Laurence communed with himself, not knowing what he said nor to what terrible adventure he was committing himself. But Gilles de Sillé of the house of the Marshal de Retz, being left to himself in the half darkness of the garret, took up the viol and sang a curious air like that with which the charmer wiles his snakes to him, and at the end of every verse, he also laughed low to himself.	{ "id": "17733" }
45	THE BOASTING OF GILLES DE SILLÉ	But, as fate would have it, it was not in the Hotel de Pornic nor yet in the city of Paris that Laurence O'Halloran was destined to enter the service of the most mighty Marshal de Retz. Not till three days after his converse with the prisoner did Laurence find an opportunity of escaping from the house in the street of the Ursulines. Sholto and his father meantime kept their watch upon the mansion of the enemy, turn and turn about; but without discovering anything pertinent to their purpose, or giving Laurence a chance to get clear off with Gilles de Sillé. The Lord James had also frequently adventured forth, as he declared, in order to spy out the land, though it is somewhat sad to relate that this espionage conducted itself in regions which gave more opportunities for investigating the peculiar delights of Paris than of discovering the whereabouts of Maud Lindesay and his cousin, the Fair Maid of Galloway. The head of Gilles de Sillé was still swathed in bandages when, with an additional swaddling of disguise across his eyes, he and Laurence, that truant scion of the house of O'Halloran, stole out into the night. A frosty chill had descended with the darkness, and a pale, dank mist from the marshes of the Seine made the pair shiver as arm in arm they ventured carefully forth. Laurence was doing a foolish, even a wicked, thing in thus, without warning, deserting his companions. But he was just at the age when it is the habit of youth to deceive themselves with the thought that a shred of good intent covers a world of heedless folly. The fugitives found the Hotel de Pornic practically deserted. They approached it cautiously from the back, lest they should run into the arms of any of the numerous enemies of its terrible lord, who, though not abhorred in Paris as in most other places which he favoured with his visits, had yet little love spent upon him even there. The custodian in the stone cell by the gate came yawning out to the bars at the sound of Gilles de Sillé's knocking, and after a growl of disfavour admitted the youth and his companion. "What, gone--my master gone!" cried Gilles, striking his hand on his thigh with an astounded air, "impossible!" "It was, indeed, a thing particularly unthoughtful and discourteous of my Lord de Retz, Marshal of France and Chamberlain of the King, to undertake a journey without consulting you," replied the man, who considered irony his strong point, but feebly concealing his pleasure at the favourite's discomfiture; "we all know upon what terms your honourable self is with my lord. But you must not blame him, for he waited whole twenty-four hours for news of you. It was reported that you were set upon by four giants, and that your bones, crushed like a filbert, had been discovered in the horse pond at the back of the Convent of the Virgins of Complaisance." Gilles de Sillé looked as if he could very well have murdered the speaker on the spot. His favour with his lord was evidently not a thing of repute in his master's household. So much was clear to Laurence, who, for the first time, began to have fears as to his own reception, having such an unpopular person as voucher and introducer. "If you do not keep a civil tongue in your head, sirrah Labord,"--the youth hissed the words through his clenched teeth,--"I will have your throat cut." "Ah, I am too old," said the man, boldly; "besides, this is Paris, and I have been twenty years concierge to his Grace the Duke of Orleans. I and my wife have his secrets even as you, most noble Sire de Sillé, possess those of my new master. You, or he either, by God's grace, will think twice before cutting my throat. Moreover, you will be good enough at this point to state your business or get to bed. For I am off to mine. I serve my master, but I am not compelled to spend the night parleying with his lacqueys." Now the concierges of Paris are very free and independent personages, and their tongues are accustomed to wag freely and to some purpose in their heads. "Whither has my master gone?" asked de Sillé, curbing his wrath in order to get an answer. "He _said_ that he went to Tiffauges. Whether that be true, you have better means of knowing than I." The swarthy youth turned to Laurence. "How much money have you, Master O'Halloran? I have spent all of mine, and this city swine will not lend me a single sou for my expenses. We must to the stables and follow the Sieur de Retz forthwith to Brittany." "I have ten golden angels which the prior of the convent gave me at my departure," said Laurence, with some pride. His companion nodded approvingly. "So much will see us through--that is, with care. Give them here to me," he added after a moment's thought; "I will pay them out with more economy, being of the country through which we pass." But Laurence, though sufficiently headlong and reckless, had not been born a Scot for naught. "Wait till there is necessity," he replied cautiously, "and the angels shall not be lacking. Till then they are quite safe with me. For security I carry them in a secret place ill to be gotten at hastily." Gilles de Sillé turned away with some movement of impatience, yet without saying another word upon the subject. "To the stables," he said; then turning to the concierge he added, "I suppose we can have horses to ride after my lord?" "So far as I am concerned," growled Labord, "you can have all the horses you want--and break your necks off each one of them if you will. It will save some good hemp and hangman's hire. Such devil's dogs as you two be bear your dooms ready written on your faces." And this saying nettled our Laurence, who prided himself no little on an allure blonde and gallant. But Gilles de Sillé cared no whit for the servitor's sneers, so long as they got horses between their knees and escaped out of Paris that night. In an hour they were ready to start, and Laurence had expended one of his gold angels on the provend for the journey, which his companion and he stored in their saddle-bags. And in this manner, like an idle lad who for mischief puts body and soul in peril, went forth Laurence MacKim to take up service with the redoubtable Messire Gilles de Laval, Sieur de Retz, High Chamberlain of Charles the Seventh, Marshal of France, and lately companion-in-arms of the martyred Maid of Orleans. Now, before he went forth from the street of the Ursulines, he had laid a sealed letter on the bed of his brother, which ran thus: "Ha, Sir Sholto MacKim, while you stand about in the rain and shiver under your cloak, I am off to find out the mystery. When I have done all without assistance from the wise Sir Sholto, I will return. But not before. Fare your knightship well." Laurence and Gilles de Sillé rode out of Paris by the Versailles road, and the latter insisted on silence till they had passed the forest of St. Cyr, which was at that time exceedingly dangerous for horsemen not travelling in large companies. Once they were fairly on the road to Chartres, however, and clear of the valley of the Seine and its tangled boscage of trees, Gilles relaxed sufficiently to break a bottle of wine to the success of their journey and to the new service and duty upon which Laurence was to enter at the end of it. Having proposed this toast, he handed the bumper first to Laurence, who, barely tasting the excellent Poitevin vintage, handed the leathern bottle back to de Sillé. That sallow youth immediately, without giving his companion a second chance, proceeded to quaff the entire contents of the pigskin. Then as the stiff brew penetrated downwards, it was not long before the favourite of the marshal began to wax full of vanity and swelling words. "I tell you what it is," he said, "there would be trembling in the heart of a very great man when the nine cravens returned without me. For I am no shaveling ignoramus, but a gentleman of birth; aye, and one who, though poor, is a near cousin of the marshal himself. I warrant the rascals who ran away would smart right soundly for leaving me behind. For Gilles de Sillé is no simpleton. He knows more than is written down in the catechism of Holy Church. None can touch my favour with my lord, no matter what they testify against me. For me I have only to ask and have. That is why I take such pride in bringing you to my Lord of Retz. I know that he will give you a post about his person, and if you are not a simple fool you may go very far. For my master is a friend of the King and, what is better, of Louis the Dauphin. He gat the King back a whole province--a dukedom so they say, from the hands of some Scots fool that had it off his grandfather for deeds done in the ancient wars. And in return the King will protect my master against all his enemies. Do I not speak the truth?" Laurence hoped that he did, but liked not the veiled hints and insinuations of some surprising secret in the life of the marshal, possessed by his dear cousin and well-beloved servant Gilles de Sillé. With an ever loosening tongue the favourite went on: "A great soldier is our master--none greater, not even Dunois himself. Why, he rode into Orleans at the right hand of the Maid. None in all the army was so great with her as he. I tell you, Charles himself liked it not, and that was the beginning of all the bother of talk about my lord--ignorant gabble of the countryside I call it. Lord, if they only knew what I know, then, indeed--but enough. Marshal Gilles is a mighty scholar as well, and hath Henriet the clerk--a weak, bleating ass that will some day blab if my master permit me not to slice his gizzard in time--he hath him up to read aloud Latin by the mile, all out of the books called Suetonius and Tacitus--such high-flavoured tales and full of--well, of things such as my master loves." So ran Gilles de Sillé on as the miles fled back behind their horses' heels and the towers of Chartres rose grey and solemn through the morning mists before the travellers.	{ "id": "17733" }
46	THE COUNTRY OF THE DREAD	The three remaining Scottish palmers were riding due west into a sunset which hung like a broad red girdle over the Atlantic. All the sky above their heads was blue grey and lucent. But along the horizon, as it seemed for the space of two handbreadths, there was suspended this bandolier of flaming scarlet. The adventurers were not weary of their quest. They were only sick at heart with the fruitlessness of it. First upon leaving Paris they had gone on to the Castle of Champtocé, and from beneath had surveyed the noble range of battlements crowning the heights above the broad, poplar-guarded levels of the Loire. The Chateau de Thouars also they had seen, a small white-gabled house, most like a Scottish baron's tower, which the Marshal de Retz possessed in virtue of his neglected wife Katherine. In it her sister the Lady Sybilla had been born. Solitary and tenantless, save for a couple of guards and their uncovenanted womenkind, it looked down on its green island meadows, while on the horizon hung the smoke of the wood fires lit at morn and eve by the good wives of Nantes. To that place the three had next journeyed and had there beheld the great Hotel de Suze, set like an enemy's fortress in the midst of the turbulent city, over against the Castle of the King. But the Hotel, though held like a place of arms, was untenanted by the marshal, his retinue, or the lost Scottish maids. Next they found the strong Castle of Tiffauges, above the green and rippling waters of the Sevres, void also as the others. No light gleamed out of that window of sinister repute, high up in the cliff-like wall, from which strange shapes were reported to look forth even at deep midnoon. North, south, and east the three had ridden through the country of Retz. There remained but Machecoul, more remote and also darker in repute than any of the other dwelling-places of Gilles de Retz. As they rode westward towards it, they became day by day more conscious of the darkening down of the atmosphere of fear and suspicion, which, murky and lowering, overhung all that fair land of southern Brittany. The vast pine forests from which rose the lonely towers of this the marshal's most remote castle could now be seen, serrated darkly against the broad belt of the sky. The sombre blackness of their spreading branches, the yet blacker darkness where the gaps between their red trunks showed a way into the wood, increased the gloom of the weary travellers. Yet they rode on, Sholto eagerly, Malise grimly, and the Lord James with the dogged resignation of a good knight who may be depended on to see an adventure through, however irksome it may be proving. James of Avondale thought within himself that the others had greater interests in the quest than he--the younger MacKim having at stake the honour of his sweetheart Maud, the elder the life of his young mistress, the last of the Galloway house of Douglas. Yet it was with that jolly heart of his beating strong and loyal under his brown palmer's coat, that James Douglas rode towards Machecoul, only whistling low to himself and wishing that something would happen to break the monotony of their journey. Nor had he long to wait. For just as the sun was setting they rode all three of them abreast into the little hamlet of Saint Philbert, and saw the sullen waters of the Étang de Grande Lieu spread marshy and brackish as far as the eye could reach, edged by peat bogs and overhung perilously by gloomy pines nodding over pools blacker than scrivener's ink. As the three Scots looked into the stockaded entrance of the village, they could see the children playing on the long, irregular street, and the elder folk sitting about their doors in the evening light. But as soon as the clatter of horses' hoofs was heard, borne from far down the aisles of the forest, there arose a sudden clamour and a crying. From each little sparred enclosure rushed forth a woman who snatched a baby here and there and drove a herd of children before her indoors, glancing around and behind her as she did so with the anxious look of a motherly barn-door fowl when the hawk hangs poised in the windless sky. By the time the three men had entered the gate and ridden up the village street, all was silent and dark. The windows were shut, the doors were barred, and the village had become a street of living tombs. "What means this?" said the Lord James; "the people are surely afraid of us." " 'Tis doubtless but their wonted welcome to their lord, the Sieur de Retz. He seems to be popular wherever he goes," said Malise, grimly; "but let us dismount and see if we can get stabling for our beasts. Did they not tell us there was not another house for miles betwixt here and Machecoul?" So without waiting for dissent or counter opinion, the master armourer went directly up to the door of the most respectable-appearing house in the village, one which stood a little back from the road and was surrounded by a wall. Here he dismounted and knocked loudly with his sword-hilt upon the outer gate. The noise reverberated up and down the street, and was tossed back in undiminished volume from the green wall of pines which hemmed in the village. But there was no answer, and Malise grew rapidly weary of his own clamour. "Hold my bridle," he said curtly to Sholto, and with a single push of his shoulders he broke the wooden bar, and the two halves of the outer gate fell apart before him. A great, smooth-haired yellow dog of the country rushed furiously at the intruders, but Malise, who was as dexterous as he was powerful, received him with so sound a buffet on the head that he paused bewildered, shaking his ears, whereat Malise picked him up, tucked him under his arm, and with thumbs about his windpipe effectually choked his barking. Then releasing him, Malise took no further notice of this valorous enemy, and the poor, loyal, baffled beast, conscious of defeat, crept shamefacedly away to hide his disgrace among the faggots. But Malise was growing indignant and therefore dangerous and ill to cross. "Never did I see such mannerless folk," he growled; "they will not even give a stranger a word or a bite for his beast." Then he called to his companions, "Come hither and speak to these cravens ere I burst their inner doors as well." At this by no means empty threat came the Lord James and spoke aloud in his cheery voice to those within the silent house: "Good people, we are no robbers, but poor travellers and strangers. Be not afraid. All we want is that you should tell us which house is the inn that we may receive refreshment for ourselves and our horses." Then there came a voice from behind the door: "There is no inn nearer than Pornic. We are poor people and cannot support one. We pray your highness to depart in peace." "But, good sir," answered James Douglas, "that we cannot do. Our steeds are foot weary with a long day's journey. Give us the shelter of your barns and a bundle of fodder and we will be content. We have food and drink with us. Open, and be not afraid." "Of what country are you? Are you of the household of the Sieur de Retz?" "Nay," cried James again, "we are pilgrims returning to our own city of Albi in the Tarn country. We know nothing of any Sieur de Retz. Look forth from a window and satisfy yourself." "Then if there be treachery in your hearts, beware," said the tremulous voice again; "for I have four young men here by me whose powder guns are even now ready to fire from all the windows if you mean harm." A white face looked out for a moment from the casement, and as quickly ducked within. Then the voice continued its bleating. "My lords, I will open the door. But forgive the fears of a poor old man in a wide, empty house." The door opened and a curious figure appeared within. It was a man apparently decrepit and trembling, who in one hand carried a lantern and in the other a staff over which he bent with many wheezings of exhausted breath. "What would you with a poor old man?" he said. "We would have shelter and fodder, if it please you to give them to us for the sake of God's grace." The old man trembled so vehemently that he was in danger of shaking out the rushlight which flickered dismally in his wooden lantern. "I am a poor, poor man," he quavered; "I have naught in the world save some barley meal and a little water." "That will do famously," said James Douglas; "we are hungry men, and will pay well for all you give us." The countenance of the cripple instantly changed. He looked up at the speaker with an alert expression. "Pay," he said, "pay--did you not say you would pay? Why, I thought you were gentlefolks! Now, by that I know that you are none, but of the commonalty like myself." James Douglas took a gold angel out of his belt and threw it to him. The cripple collapsed upon the top of the piece of money and groped vainly for it with eager, outspread fingers in the dust of the yard. "I cannot find it, good gentleman," he piped, shrill as an east wind; "alas, what shall I do? Poor Cæsar cannot find it. It was not a piece of gold;--do tell me that it was not a piece of gold; to lose a piece of gold, that were ruin indeed." Sholto picked up the lantern which had slipped from his trembling hand. The tallow was beginning to gutter out as it lay on its side, and a moment's search showed him the gold glittering on some farmyard rubbish. With a little shrill cry like a frightened bird the old man fell upon it, as it had been with claws. "Bite upon it and see if the gold be good," said Sholto, smiling. "Alas," cried the cripple, "I have but one tooth. But I know the coin. It is of the right mintage and greasiness. O lovely gold! Beautiful gentlemen, bide where you are and I will be back with you in a moment." And the old man limped away with astonishing quickness to hide his acquisition, lest, mayhap, his guests should repent them and retract their liberality.	{ "id": "17733" }
47	CÆSAR MARTIN'S WIFE	Presently he returned and conducted them to a decent stable, where they saw their beasts bestowed and well provided with bedding and forage for the night. Then the old cripple, more than ever bent upon his stick, but nevertheless chuckling to himself all the way, preceded them into the house. "Ah, she is clever," he muttered; "she thinks her demon tells her everything. But even La Meffraye will not know where I have hidden that beautiful gold." So he sniggered senilely to himself between his fits of coughing. It was a low, wide room of strange aspect into which the old man conducted his guests. The floor was of hard-beaten earth, but cleanly kept and firm to the feet. The fireplace, with a hearth round it of built stone, was placed in the midst, and from the rafters depended many chains and hooks. A wooden settle ran half round the hearthstone on the side farthest from the draught of the door. The weary three sat down and stretched their limbs. The fire had burnt low, and Sholto, reaching to a faggot heap by the side wall, began to toss on boughs of green birch in handfuls, till the lovely white flame arose and the sap spat and hissed in explosive puffs. _"Birk when 'tis green Makes a fire for a king!" _ Malise hummed the old Scots lines, and the cripple coming in at that moment raised a shrill bark of protest. "My good wood, my fuel that cost me so many sore backs--be careful, young sir. Faggots of birch are dear in this country of Machecoul. My lord is of those who give nothing for naught." "Oh, we shall surely pay for what we use," cried careless James; "let us eat, and warm our toes, and therewith have somewhat less of thy prating, old dotard. It can be shrewdly cold in this westerly country of yours." "Pay," cried the old man, holding up his clawed hands; "do you mean _more_ pay--more besides the beautiful gold angel? Here--" He ran out and presently returned with armful after armful of faggots, while his guests laughed to find his mood so changed. "Here," he cried, running to and fro like a fretful hen, "take it all, and when that is done, this also, and this. Nay, I will stay up all night to carry more from the forest of Machecoul." "And you who were so afraid to open to three honest men, would you venture to bring faggots by night from yon dark wood?" "Nay," said the old man, cunningly, "I meant not from the forest, but from my neighbours' woodpiles. Yet for lovely gold I would even venture to go thither--that is, if I had my image of the Blessed Mother about my neck and the moon shone very bright." "Now haste thee with the barley brew," said Lord James, "for my stomach is as deep as a well and as empty as the purse of a younger son." The strange cripple emitted another bird-like cachinnation, resembling the sound which is made by the wooden cogwheels wherewithal boys fright the crows from the cornfields when the August sun is yellowing the land. "Poor old Cæsar Martin can show you something better than that," he cried, as he hirpled out (for so Malise described it afterwards) and presently returned dragging a great iron pot with a strength which seemed incredible in so ramshackle a body. "Ha! ha!" he said, "here is fragrant stew; smell it. Is it not good? In ten minutes it will be so hot and toothsome that you will scarce have patience to wait till it be decently cool in the platters. This is not common Angevin stew, but Bas Breton--which is a far better thing." Malise rose, and, relieving the old man, with one finger swung the pot to a crook that hung over the cheerful blaze of the birchwood. The old cripple Cæsar Martin now mounted on a stool and stirred the mess with a long stick, at the end of which was a steel fork of two prongs. And as he stirred he talked: "God bless you, say I, brave gentlemen and good pilgrims. Surely it was a wind noble and fortunate that blew you hither to taste my broth. There be fine pigeons here, fat and young. There be leverets juicy and tender as a maid untried. There--what think you of that?" (he held each ingredient up on a prong as he spoke). "And here be larks, partridge stuffed with sage, ripe chestnuts from La Valery, and whisper it not to any of the marshal's men, a fawn from the park of a month old, dressed like a kid so that none may know." "I suppose that so much providing is for your four sons?" said Sholto. The cripple laughed again his feeble, fleering laugh. "I have no sons, honest sir," he said; "it was but a weakling's policy to tell you so, lest there should have been evil in your hearts. But I have a wife and that is enough. You may have heard of her. She is called La Meffraye." As he spoke his face took on an access of white terror, even as it had done when he looked out of the window. "La Meffraye is she well named," he repeated the appellation with a harsh croak as of a night-hawk screaming. "God forfend that she should come home to-night and find you here!" "Why, good sir," smiled James Douglas, "if that be the manner in which you speak of your housewife, faith, I am right glad to have remained a bachelor." Cæsar the cripple looked about him and lowered his voice. "Hush!" he quavered, breathing hard so that his words whistled between his toothless gums, "you do not know my wife. I tell you, she is the familiar of the marshal himself." "Then," cried James Douglas, slapping his thigh, "she is young and pretty, of a surety. I know what these soldiers are familiar with. I would that she would come home and partake with us now." "Nay," said the old man, without taking offence, "you mistake, kind sir, I meant familiar in witchcraft, in devilry--not (as it were) in levity and cozenage." The fragrant stew was now ready to be dished in great platters of wood, and the guests fell to keenly, each being provided with a wooden spoon. The meat they cut with their daggers, but the most part was, however, tender enough to come apart in their fingers, which, as all know, better preserves the savour. At first the cripple denied having any wine, but another gold angel from the Lord James induced him to draw a leathern bottle from some secret hoard, and decant it into a pitcher for them. It was resinous and Spanish, but, as Malise said, "It made warm the way it went down." And after all with wine that is always the principal thing. As the feast proceeded old Cæsar Martin told the three Scots why the long street of the village had been cleared of children so quickly at the first sound of their horses' feet. "And in truth if you had not come across the moor, but along the beaten track from the Chateau of Machecoul, you would never have caught so much as a glimpse of any child or mother in all Saint Philbert." At this point he beckoned Sholto, Malise, and the Lord James to come nearer to him, and standing with his back to the fire and their three heads very close, he related the terrible tale of the Dread that for eight years had stalked grim and gaunt through the westlands of France, La Vendée, and Bas Bretagne. In all La Vendée there was not a village that had not lost a child. In many a hamlet about the shores of the sunny Loire was there scarce a house from which one had not vanished. They were seen playing in the greenwood, the eye was lifted, and lo! they were not. A boy went to the well. An hour after his pitcher stood beside it filled to the brim. But he himself was never more seen by holt or heath. A little maid, sweet and innocent, looked over the churchyard wall; she spied something that pleased her. She climbed over to get it--and was not. "Oh, I could tell you of a thousand such if I had time," shrilled the thin treble of the cripple in their eager ears, "if I dared--if I only dared!" "Dared," said Malise; "why man--what is the matter with you? None could hear you but we three men." "My wife--my wife," he quavered; "I bid you be silent, or at least speak not so loud. La Meffraye she is called--she can hear all things. See--" He made a sudden movement and bared his right arm. It was withered to the shoulder and of a dark purple colour approaching black. "La Meffraye did that," he gasped; "she blasted it because I would not do the evil she wished." "Then why do you not kill her?" said Malise, whose methods were not subtle. "If she were mine, I would throttle her, and give her body to the hounds." "Hush, I bid you be silent for dear God's sake in whom I believe," again came the voice of the cripple. "You do not know what you say. La Meffraye cannot die. Perhaps she will vanish away in a blast of the fire of hell--one day when God is very strong and angry. But she cannot die. She only leads others to death. She dies not herself." "You are kind, gentlemen," he went on after a pause, finding them continue silent; "I will show you all. Pray the saint for me at his shrine that I may die and go to purgatory. Or (if it were to a different one) even to hell--that I might escape for ever from La Meffraye." His hand fumbled a moment at the closely buttoned collar of his blue blouse. Then he succeeded in undoing it and showed his neck. From chin to bosom it was a mass of ghastly bites, some partially healed, more of them recent and yet raw, while the skin, so far as the three Scots could observe it, was covered with a hieroglyphic of scratches, claw marks, and, as it seemed, the bites of some fierce wild beast. "Great Master of Heaven!" cried James Douglas. "What hell hound hath done this to you?" "The wife of my bosom," quoth very grimly Cæsar the cripple. "A good evening to you, gentlemen all," said a soft and winning voice from the doorway. At the sound the old man staggered, reeled, and would have swayed into the fire had not Sholto seized him and dragged him out upon the floor. All rose to their feet. In the doorway of the cottage stood an old woman, small, smiling, delicate of feature. She looked benignly upon them and continued to smile. Her hair and her eyes were her most noticeable features. The former was abundant and hung loosely about the woman's brow and over her shoulders in wisps of a curious greenish white, the colour almost of mouldy cheese, while, under shaggy white eyebrows, her large eyes shone piercing and green as emerald stones on the hand of some dusky monarch of the Orient. The old woman it was who spoke first, before any of the men could recover from their surprise. "My husband," she said, still calmly smiling upon them, "my poor husband has doubtless been telling you his foolish tales. The saints have permitted him to become demented. It is a great trial to a poor woman like me, but the will of heaven be done!" The three Scots stood silent and transfixed, for it was an age of belief. But the cripple lay back on the settle where Sholto had placed him, his lips white and gluey. And as he lay he muttered audibly, "La Meffraye! La Meffraye! Oh, what will become of poor Cæsar Martin this night!"	{ "id": "17733" }
48	THE MERCY OF LA MEFFRAYE	It was a strange night that which the three Scots spent in the little house standing back from the street of Saint Philbert on the gloomy edges of the forest of Machecoul. The hostess, indeed, was unweariedly kind and brought forth from her store many dainties for their delectation. She talked with touching affection of her poor husband, afflicted with these strange fits of wolfish mania, in the paroxysms of which he was wont to tear himself and grovel in the dust like a beast. This she told them over and over as she moved about setting before them provend from secret stores of her own, obviously unknown or perhaps forbidden to Cæsar Martin. Wild bee honey from the woods she placed before them and white wheaten bread, such as could not be got nearer than Paris, with wine of some rarer vintage than that out of the cripple's resinous pigskin. These and much else La Meffraye pressed upon them till she had completely won over the Lord James, and even Malise, easy natured like most very strong men, was taken by the sympathetic conversation and gracious kindliness of the wife of poor afflicted Cæsar Martin of Saint Philbert. Only Sholto kept his suspicion edged and pointed, and resolved that he would not sleep that night, but watch till the dawn the things which might befall in the house on the forest's border. Yet it was conspicuously to Sholto that La Meffraye directed most of her blandishments. Her ruddy face, so bright that it seemed almost as if wholly covered with a birthmark, gleamed with absolute good nature as she looked at him. She threw off the black veil which half concealed her strange coiffure of green toadstool-coloured hair. She placed her choicest morsels before the young captain of the Douglas guard. " 'Tis hard," she said, touching him confidentially on the shoulder, "hard to dwell here in this country wherein so many deeds of blood are wrought, alone with a poor imbecile like my husband. None cares to help me with aught, all being too busy with their own affairs. It falls on me to till the fields, which, scanty as they are, are more than my feeble strength can compass unaided. Alone I must prune and water the vines, bring in the firewood, and go out and in by night and day to earn a scanty living for this afflicted one and myself. You will hear, perchance, mischief laid to my charge in this village of evil speakers and lazy folk. They hate me because I am no gadabout to spend time abusing my neighbours at the village well. But the children love me, and that is no ill sign. Their young hearts are open to love a poor lone old woman. What cares La Meffraye for the sneers of the ignorant and prejudiced so long as the children run to her gladly and search her pockets for the good things she never forgets to bring them from her kitchen?" So the old woman, talking all the time, bustled here and there, setting sweet cakes baked with honey, confitures and bairns' goodies, figs, almonds, and cheese before her guests. But through all her blandishments Sholto watched her and had his eyes warily upon what should befall her husband, who could be seen lying apparently either asleep or unconscious upon the bed in an inner room. "You do not speak like the folk of the south," she said to the Lord James. "Neither are you Northmen nor of the Midi. From what country may you come?" The question dropped casually as to fill up the time. "We are poor Scots who have lived under the protection of your good King Charles, the seventh of that name, and having been restored to our possessions after the turning out of the English, we are making a pilgrimage in order to visit our friends and also to lay our thanks upon the altar of the blessed Saint Andrew in his own town in Scotland." The old woman listened, approvingly nodding her head as the Lord James reeled off this new and original narrative. But at the mention of the land of the Scots La Meffraye pricked her ears. "Scots," she said meditatively; "that will surely interest my lord, who hath but recently returned from that country, whither they say he hath been upon a very confidential embassy from the King." It was the Lord James who asked the next question. "Have you heard whether any of our nation returned with him from our country? We would gladly meet with any such, that we might hear again the tongue of our nativity, which is ever sweet in a strange land--and also, if it might be, take back tidings of them to their folk in Scotland." "Nay," answered La Meffraye, standing before them with her eyes shrewdly fixed upon the face of the speaker, "I have heard of none such. Yet it may well be, for the marshal is very fond of the society of the young, even as I am myself. He has many boy singers in his choir, maidens also for his religious processions. Indeed, never do I visit Machecoul without finding a pretty boy or a stripling girl passing so innocently in and out of his study, that it is a pleasure to behold." "Is his lordship even now at Machecoul?" asked James Douglas, bluntly. The Lord James prided himself upon his tact, but when he set out to manifest it, Sholto groaned inwardly. He was never certain from one moment to another what the reckless young Lord might do or say next. "I do not even know whether the marshal is now at Machecoul. The rich and great, they come and go, and we poor folk understand it no more than the passing of the wind or the flight of the birds. But let us get to our couches. The morn will soon be here, and it must not find our bodies unrested or our eyes unrefreshed." La Meffraye showed her guests where to make their beds in the outer room of the cottage, which they did by moving the bench back and stretching themselves with their heads to the wall and their feet to the fire. Sholto lay on the side furthest from the entrance of the room to which La Meffraye had retired with her husband. Malise was on the other side, and Lord James lay in the midst, as befitted his rank. These last were instantly asleep, being tired with their journey and heavy with the meal of which they had partaken. But every sense in Sholto's body was keenly awake. A vague inexpressible fear possessed him. He lay watching the red unequal glow thrown upwards from the embers, and through the wide opening in the roof he could discern the twinkling of a star. Within the chamber of La Meffraye there was silence. Sholto could not even hear the heavy breathing of Cæsar Martin. The silence was complete. Suddenly, from far away, there came up the howling of a wolf. It was not an uncommon sound in the forests of France, or even in those of his own country, yet somehow Sholto listened with a growing dread. Nearer and nearer it came, till it seemed to reverberate immediately beneath the eaves of the dwelling of Cæsar the cripple. The flicker of the embers died slowly out. Malise lay without a sound, his head couched on his hand. Lord James began to groan and move uneasily, like one in the grip of nightmare. Sholto listened yet more acutely. Outside the house he could hear the soft pad-pad of wild animals. Their pelts seemed almost to brush against the wooden walls behind his head with a rustle like that of corded silk. Sholto felt nervously for his sword and cleared it instinctively of the coverture in which he was wrapped. Expectation tingled in his cheeks and palms. The silence grew more and more oppressive. He could hear nothing but that soft brushing and the galloping pads outside, as of something that went round and round the house, weaving a coil of terror and death about the doomed inmates. Suddenly from the adjoining chamber a cry burst forth, so shrill and terrible that not only Sholto but Malise also leaped to his feet. "Mercy--mercy! Have mercy, La Meffraye!" it wailed. Sholto rushed across the floor, striding the body of James Douglas in his haste. He dashed the door of the inner chamber open and was just in time to see something dark and lithe dart through the window and disappear into the indigo gloom without. From the bed there came a series of gasping moans, as from a man at the point of death. "For God's sake bring a light!" cried Sholto, "there is black murder done here." His father ran to the hearth, and, seizing a birchen brand, the end of which was still red, he blew upon it with care and success so that it burst into a white brilliant flame that lighted all the house. Then he, too, entered the room where Sholto, with his sword ready in his hand, was standing over the gasping, dying thing on the bed. When Malise thrust forward his torch, lo! there, extended on the couch to which they had carried him two hours before, lay the yet twitching body of Cæsar the cripple with his throat well nigh bitten away. But La Meffraye was nowhere to be seen.	{ "id": "17733" }
49	THE BATTLE WITH THE WERE-WOLVES	"Let us get out of this hellish place," cried James Douglas so soon as he had seen with his eyes that which lay within the bedchamber of the witch woman, and made certain that it was all over with Cæsar Martin. So the three men issued out into the gloom of the night, and made their way to the stable wherein they had disposed their horses so carefully the night before. The door lay on the ground smashed and broken. It had been driven to kindling wood from within. Its inner surface was dinted and riven by the iron shoes of the frightened steeds, but the horses themselves were nowhere to be found. They had broken their halters and vanished. The three Scots were left in the heart of the enemy's country without means of escape save upon their own feet. But the horror which lay behind them in the house of La Meffraye drove them on. Almost without knowing whither they went, they turned their faces towards the west, in the direction in which lay Machecoul, the castle of the dread Lord of all the Pays de Retz. Malise, as was his custom, walked in front, Sholto and the Lord James Douglas a step behind. A chill wind from the sea blew through the forest. The pines bent soughing towards the adventurers. The night grew denser and blacker about them, as with the wan waters of the marismas on one side and the sombre arches of the forest on the other, they advanced sword in hand, praying that that which should happen might happen quickly. But as they went the woods about them grew clamorous with horrid noises. All the evil beasts of the world seemed abroad that night in the forests of Machecoul. Presently they issued forth into a more open space. The greyish dark of the turf beneath their feet spread further off. The black blank wall of the pines retreated and they found themselves suddenly with the stars twinkling infinitely chill and remote above them. They were now, however, no more alone, for round them circled and echoed the crying of many packs of wolves. In the forest of Machecoul the guardian demons of its lord had been let loose, and throughout all its borders poor peasant folk shivered in their beds, or crouched behind the weak defences of their twice barred doors. For they knew that the full pack never hunted in the Pays de Retz without bringing death to some wanderer found defenceless within the borders of that region of dread. "Let us stop here," said Sholto; "if these howling demons attack us, we are at least in somewhat better case to meet them and fight it out till the morning than in the dense darkness of the woods." In the centre of the open glade in which they found themselves, they stumbled against the trunk of a huge pine which had been blasted by lightning. It still stood erect with its withered branches stretching bare and angular away from the sea. About this the three Scots posted themselves, their backs to the corrugations of the rotting stump, and their swords ready in their hands to deal out death to whatever should attack them. Well might Malise declare the powers of evil were abroad that night. At times the three men seemed wholly ringed with devilish cries. Yells and howls as of triumphant fiends were borne to their ears upon the western wind. The noises approached nearer, and presently out of the dark of the woods shadowy forms glided, and again Sholto heard the soft pad-pad of many feet. Gleaming eyes glared upon them as the wolves trotted out and sat down in a wide circle to wait for the full muster of the pack before rushing their prey. Sholto knew well how those in the service of Satan were able to change themselves into the semblance of wolves, and he never doubted for a moment that he and his friends were face to face with the direct manifestations of the nether pit. Nevertheless Sholto MacKim was by nature of a stout heart, and he resolved that if he had to die, it would be as well to die as became a captain of the Douglas guard. The blue leme of summer lightning momentarily lit up the western sky. The men could see the great gaunt pack wolves sitting upon their haunches or moving restlessly to and fro across each other, while from the denser woods behind rose the howling of fresh levies, hastening to the assistance of the first. Sholto noted in especial one gigantic she-wolf, which appeared at every point of the circle and seemed to muster and encourage the pack to the attack. [Illustration: ALL THE WILD BEASTS APPEARED TO BE OBEYING THE SUMMONS OF THE WITCH WOMAN.] The wild-fire flickered behind the jet black silhouettes of the dense trees so that their tops stood out against the pale sky as if carved in ebony. Then the night shut down darker than before. As the soundless lightning wavered and brightened, the shadows of the wolves appeared simultaneously to start forward and then retreat, while the noise of their howling carried with it some diabolic suggestion of discordant human voices. " _La Meffraye! La Meffraye! Meffraye! _" So to the excited minds of the three Scots the wolf legions seemed to be crying with one voice as they came nearer. All the wild beasts of the wood appeared to be obeying the summons of the witch woman. The strain of the situation first told upon the Lord James Douglas. "Great Saints!" he cried, "let us attack them and die sword in hand. I cannot endure much more of this." "Stand still where you are. It is our only chance," commanded Sholto, as abruptly as if James Douglas had been a doubtful soldier of his company. "It were better to find a tree that we could climb," growled Malise with a practical suggestiveness, which, however, came too late. For they dared not move out of the open space, and the great trunk of the blasted pine rose behind them bare of branches almost to the top. "Your daggers in your left hands, they are upon us!" cried Sholto, who, standing with his face to the west, had a lower horizon and more light than the others. The three men had cast their palmers' cloaks from their shoulders and now stood leaning a little forward, breathing hard as they waited the assault of foes whom they believed to be frankly diabolic and instinct with all the powers of hell. This required greater courage than storming many fortifications. Almost as he spoke Sholto became aware that a fierce rush of shaggy beasts was crossing the scanty grass towards him. He saw a vision of red mouths, gleaming teeth, and hairy breasts, into the leaping chaos of which he plunged and replunged his sword till his arm ached. Mostly the stricken died snapping and tearing at each other; but ever and anon one stronger than the rest would overleap the barrier of dead and dying wolves that grew up in front of the three men, and Sholto would feel the teeth click clean and hard upon the mail of his arm or thigh before he could stoop to despatch the brute with the dirk which he grasped in his left hand. The rush upon Sholto's side fortunately did not last long, but while it continued the battle was strange and silent and grim--this notable fight of man and beast. As the youth at last cleared his front of a hairy monster that had sprung at his throat, he found himself sufficiently free to look round the trunk of the blasted pine that he might see how it fared with his companions. At first he could see nothing clearly, for the same strange and weird conditions continued to permeate the earth and air. For a moment all would be dark and then flash on continuous flash would follow, the wild-fire running about the tree-tops and glinting up through the recesses of the woods as if the heavens themselves were instinct with diabolic light. As he looked, Sholto saw his father, a gigantic figure standing black and militant against the brightest of it. His hand grasped a huge wolf by the heels, and he swung the beast about his head as easily as he was wont to handle the forehammer at home. With his living weapon Malise had swept a space about him clear, and the beasts seemed to have fallen back in terror before such a strange enemy. But what of the Lord James? Overleaping the pile of dead and dying wolves which his sword and dagger had made, and from which savage heads still bit and snarled up at him as he went, Sholto ran round to seek the young Lord of Avondale. At the first flash after leaving the tree trunk he was nowhere to be seen, but a second revealed him lying on the ground, with four shaggy beasts bending over him and tearing fiercely at his gorget and breast-armour. With a loud shout Sholto was among them. He passed his sword through and through the largest, and in its fall the wounded monster turned and bit savagely at the fore leg of a companion. The bone cracked as a rotten branch snaps underfoot, and in another moment the two animals were rolling over and over, locked together in the death grapple. Once, twice, and thrice Sholto struck right and left. The rest of the beasts, seemingly astonished by the sudden flank attack, turned and fled. Then, pushing off a huge wounded brute which lay gasping out its life in red jets upon the breast of the fallen man, he dragged James Douglas back to the tree which had been their fortress and propped him up against the trunk. At the same moment a long wailing cry from the forest called the wolves off. They retreated suddenly, disappearing apparently by magic into the depths of the forest, leaving their dead in quivering heaps all about the little bare glade where the unequal fight had been fought. Malise the Brawny flung down the wolf whose head had served him with such deadly effect as a weapon against his brethren. The beast had long been dead, with a skull smashed in and a neck dislocated by the sweeping blows it had dealt its kin. "Sholto! My Lord James!" cried Malise, coming up to them hastily. "How fares it with you?" "We are both here," answered his son. "Come and help me with the Lord James. He has fallen faint with the stress of his armour." After the disappearance of the wolves the unearthly brilliance of the wild-fire gradually diminished, and now it flickered paler and less frequently. But another hail from Sholto revealed to Malise the whereabouts of his companions, and presently he also was on his knees beside the young Lord of Avondale. Sholto gave him into the strong arms of Malise and stood erect to listen for any renewal of the attack. The wise smith, whose skill as a leech was proverbial, carefully felt James Douglas all over in the darkness, and took advantage of every flicker of summer lightning to examine him as well as his armour would permit. "Help me to loosen his gorget and ease him of his body mail," said Malise, at last. "He has gotten a bite or two, but nothing that appears serious. I think he has but fainted from pressure." Sholto bent down and with his dagger cut string by string the stout leathern twists which secured the knight's mail. And as he did so his father widened it out with his powerful fingers to ease the weight upon the young man's chest. Presently, with a long sigh, James Douglas opened his eyes. "Where are the wolves?" he said, with a grimace of disgust. Sholto told him how all that were left alive had, for the present at least, disappeared. "Ugh, the filthy brutes!" said Lord James. "I fought till the stench of their hot breaths seemed to stifle me. I felt my head run round like a dog in a fit, and down I went. What happened after that?" "This," said Malise, sententiously, pointing to the heaps of dead wolves which were becoming more apparent as the night ebbed and the blue flame rose and fell like a fluttering pulse along the horizon. "Then to one or the other of you I owe my life," said Lord James Douglas, reaching a hand to both. "Sholto dragged you from under half a dozen of the devils," said Malise. "My father it was who brought you to," said Sholto. "I thank you both with all my heart--for this as for all the rest. I know not, indeed, where to begin," said James Douglas, gratefully. "Give me your hands. I can stand upright now." So saying, and being assisted by Malise, he rose to his feet. "Will they come again?" he asked, as with an intense disgust he surveyed the battle-field in the intermittent light from over the marshes. "Listen," said Malise. The low howling of the wolves had retreated farther, but seemed to retain more and more of its strange human character. " _La Meffraye! La Meff--raye! _" they seemed to wail, with a curious swelling upon the last syllable. "I hear only the yelling of the infernal brutes," said the Lord James; "they seem to be calling on their patron saint--the woman whom we saw in the house of the poor cripple. I am sure I saw her going to and fro among the devils and encouraging them to the assault." " 'Tis black work at the best," answered Malise; "these are no common wolves who would dare to attack armed men--demons of the nethermost pit rather, driven on by their hellish hunt-mistress. There will be many dead warlocks to-morrow throughout the lands of France." "Stand to your arms," cried Sholto, from the other side of the tree. And indeed the howling seemed suddenly to grow nearer and louder. The noise circled about them, and they could again perceive dusky forms which glided to and fro in the faint light among the arches of the forest. In the midst of the turmoil Malise took off his bonnet and stood reverently at prayer. "Aid us, Thy true men," he cried in a loud and solemn voice, "against all the powers of evil. In the name of God--Amen!" The howling stopped and there fell a silence. Lord James would have spoken. "Hush!" said Malise, yet more solemnly. And far off, like an echo from another world, thin and sweet and silver clear, a cock crew. The blue leaping flame of the wild-fire abruptly ceased. The dawn arose red and broad in the east. The piles of dead beasts shone out black on the grey plain of the forest glade, and on the topmost bough of a pine tree a thrush began to sing.	{ "id": "17733" }
50	THE ALTAR OF IRON	And now what of Master Laurence, lately clerk in the Abbey of Dulce Cor, presently in service with the great Lord of Retz, Messire Gilles de Laval, Marshal and Chamberlain of the King of France? Laurence had been a month at Machecoul and had not yet worn out his welcome. He was sunning himself with certain young clerks and choristers of the marshal's privy chapel of the Holy Innocents. Suddenly Clerk Henriet appeared under the arches at the upper end of the pretty cloisters, in the aisles of which the youths were seated. Henriet regarded them silently for a moment, looking with special approval upon the blonde curls and pink cheeks of the young Scottish lad. Machecoul was a vast feudal castle with one great central square tower and many smaller ones about it. The circuit of its walls enclosed gardens and pleasaunces, and included within its limits the new and beautiful chapel which has been recently finished by that good Catholic and ardent religionary, the Marshal de Retz. As yet, Laurence had been able to learn nothing of the maids, not even whether they were alive or dead, whether at Machecoul or elsewhere. At the first mention of maidens being brought from Scotland to the castle, or seen about its courts, a dead silence fell upon the company of priests and singers in the marshal's chapel. It was the same when Laurence spoke of the business privately to any of his new acquaintances. No matter how briskly the conversation had been prospering hitherto, if, at Holy Mass or jovial supper board, Laurence so much as breathed a question concerning the subject next his heart, an instant blight passed over the gaiety of his companions. Fear momently wiped every other expression from their faces, and they answered with lame evasion, or more often not at all. The shadow of the Lord of Machecoul lay heavy upon them. Clerk Henriet stood awhile watching the lads and listening to their talk behind the carved lattice of Caen stone, with its lace-like tracery of buds and flowers, through which the natural roses pushed their way, and over which the clematis tangled its twining stems. "Stand up and prove on my body that I am a rank Irelander," Laurence was saying defiantly to the world at large, with his fists up and his head thrown back. "Saint Christopher, but I will take the lot of you with one hand tied behind me. Stand up and I will teach you how to sing 'Miserable sinners are we all!' to a new and unkenned tune." " 'Tis easy for you to boast, Irelander," retorted Blaise Renouf, the son of the lay choir-master, who had been brought specially from Rome to teach the choir-boys of the marshal's chapel the latest fashions in holy song. "We will either fight you with swords or not at all. We do not fight with our bare knuckles, being civilised. And that indeed proves that you are no true lover of the French, but an English dog of unknightly birth." This retort still further irritated the hot-headed son of Malise. "I will fight you or any galley slave of a French frog with the sword, or spit you upon the rapier. I will cleave you with the axe, transfix you with the arrow, or blow you to the pit with the devil's sulphur. I will fight any of you or all of you with any weapons from a battering-ram to a toothpick--and God assist the better man. And there you have Laurence O'Halloran, at your service!" "You are a loud-crowing young cock for a newcomer," said Henriet, the confidential clerk of the marshal, suddenly appearing in the doorway; "you are desired to follow me to my lord's chamber immediately. There we will see if you will flap your wings so boldly." Laurence could not help noticing the blank alarm which this announcement caused among the youth with whom he had been playing the ancient game of brag. It was Blaise Renouf who first recovered. He looked across the little rose-grown space of the cloister to see that Henriet had turned his back, and then came quickly up to Laurence MacKim. "Listen to me," he said; "you are a game lad enough, but you do not know where you are going, nor yet what may happen to you there. We will fight you if you come back safe, but meantime you are one of ourselves, and we of the choir have sworn to stand by one another. Can you keep a pea in your mouth without swallowing it?" "Why, of course I can," said Laurence, wondering what was to come next. "I can keep a dozen and shoot them through a bore of alder tree at a penny without missing once, which I wot is more than any Frenchman ever--" "Well, then," whispered the lad Renouf, breaking in on his boast with a white countenance, "hearken well to me. When you enter the chamber of the marshal, put this in your mouth. And if nothing happens keep it there, but be careful neither to swallow it nor yet to bite upon it. But if it should chance that either Henriet or Poitou or Gilles de Sillé seize hold of your arms, bite hard upon the pellet till you feel a bitter taste and then swallow. That is all. You are indeed a cock whose comb wants cutting, and if all be well, we will incise it for your soul's good. But in the meanwhile you are of our company and fellowship. So for God's sake and your own do as you are bid. Fare you well." As he followed Clerk Henriet, Laurence looked at the round pellet in his hand. It was white, soft like ripe fruit, of an elastic consistency, and of the largeness of a pea. As Laurence ascended the stairs, he heard the practice of the choir beginning in the chapel. Precentor Renouf, the father of Blaise, had summoned the youths from the cloisters with a long mellow whistle upon his Italian pitch-pipe, running up and down the scale and ending with a flourished "A-a-men." The open windows and the pierced stone railing of the great staircase of Machecoul brought up the sound of that sweet singing from the chapel to the ear of the adventurous Scot as through a funnel. They were beginning the practice for the Christmas services, though the time was not yet near. " _Unto God be the glory In the Highest; Peace be on the earth, On the earth, Unto men who have good-will. _" So they chanted in their white robes in the Chapel of the Holy Innocents in the Castle of Machecoul near by the Atlantic shore. The chamber of Gilles de Retz testified to the extraordinary advancement of that great man in knowledge which has been claimed as peculiar to much later centuries. The window casements were so arranged that in a moment the place could either be made as dark as midnight or flooded with bright light. The walls were always freshly whitewashed, and the lime was constantly renewed. The stone floor was stained a deep brick red, and that, too, would often be applied freshly during the night. At a time when the very word "sanitation" was unknown, Gilles had properly constructed conduits leading from an adjoining apartment to the castle ditch. The chimney was wide as a peasant's whole house, and the vast fireplace could hold on its iron dogs an entire waggon-load of faggots. Indeed, that amount was regularly consumed every day when the marshal deigned to abide at Machecoul for his health and in pursuance of his wonderful studies into the deep things of the universe. "Bide here a moment," said Clerk Henriet, bending his body in a writhing contortion to listen to what might be going on inside the chamber; "I dare not take you in till I see whether my lord be in good case to receive you." So at the stair-head, by a window lattice which looked towards the chapel, Laurence stood and waited. At first he kept quite still and listened with pleasure to the distant singing of the boys. He could even hear Precentor Renouf occasionally stop and rebuke them for inattention or singing out of tune. " _My soul is like a watered garden, And I shall not sorrow any more at all! _" So he hummed as he listened, and beat the time on the ledge with his fingers. He felt singularly content. Now he was on the eve of penetrating the mystery. At last he would discover where the missing maidens were concealed. But soon he began to look about him, growing, like the boy he was, quickly weary of inaction. His eye fell upon a strange door with curious marks burnt upon its panels apparently by hot irons. There were circles complete and circles that stopped half-way, together with letters of some unknown language arranged mostly in triangles. This door fixed the lad's attention with a certain curious fascination. He longed to touch it and see whether it opened, but for the moment he was too much afraid of his guide's return to summon him into the presence of the marshal. He listened intently. Surely he heard a low sound, like the wind in a distant keyhole--or, as it might be (and it seemed more like it), the moaning of a child in pain, it knows not why. The heart of the youth gave a sudden leap. It came to him that he had hit upon the hiding-place of Margaret Douglas, the heiress of the great province of Galloway. His fortune was made. With a trembling hand he moved a step towards the door of white wood with the curious burned marks upon it. He stood a moment listening, half for the returning footsteps of Clerk Henriet, and half to the low, persistent whimper behind the panels. Suddenly he felt his right foot wet, for, as was the fashion, he wore only a velvet shoe pointed at the toe. He looked down, and lo! from under the door trickled a thin stream of red. Laurence drew his foot away, with a quick catching sob of the breath. But his hand was already on the door, and at a touch it appeared to open almost of its own accord. He found himself looking from the dusk of the outer whitewashed passage into a high, vaulted chapel, wherein many dim lights glimmered. At the end there was a great altar of iron standing square and solemn upon the platform on which it was set up, and behind it, cut indistinctly against a greenish glow of light, and imagined rather than clearly defined, the vast statue of a man with a curiously high shaped head. Laurence could not distinguish any features, so deep was the gloom, but the whole figure seemed to be bending slightly forward, as if gloating upon that which was laid upon the altar. But what struck Laurence with a sense of awe and terror was the fact that as the greenish light behind waxed and waned, he could see shadowy horns which projected from either side of the forehead, and lower, short ears, pricked and shaggy like those of a he-goat. Nearer the door, where he stood in the densest gloom, something moved to and fro, and as his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness Laurence could see that it was the bent figure of a woman. He could not distinguish her face, but it was certainly a woman of great age and bodily weakness, whose tangled hair hung down her back, and who halted curiously upon one foot as she walked. She was bending over a low couch, whereon lay a little shrouded figure, from which proceeded the low whimpering sound which he had heard from without. But even at that moment, as he waited trembling at the door, the moaning ceased, and there ensued a long silence, in which Laurence could clearly distinguish the beating of his own heart. It sounded loud in his ears as a drum that beats the alarm in the streets of a city. The figure of the woman bent low to the couch, and, after a pause, with a satisfied air she threw a white cloth over the shrouded form which lay upon it. Then, without looking towards the door where Laurence stood, she went to the great iron altar at the upper end of the weird chapel and threw something on the red embers which glowed upon it. " _Barran--most mighty Barran-Sathanas, accept this offering, and reveal thyself to my master! _" she said in a voice like a chant. A greenish smoke of stifling odour rose and filled all the place, and through it the huge horned figure above the altar seemed to turn its head and look at the boy. Laurence could scarcely repress a cry of terror. He set his hand to the door, and lo! as it had opened, so it appeared to shut of itself. He sank almost fainting against the cold iron bars of the window which looked out upon the courtyard below. The wind blew in upon him sweet and cool, and with it there came again the sound of the singing of the choir. They were practising the song of the Holy Innocents, which, by command of the marshal himself, Precentor Renouf had set to excellent and accordant music of his own invention. " _A voice was heard in Ramah, In Ramah, Lamentations and bitter weeping, Rachel weeping for her children, Refused to be comforted: For her children, Because they were not. _" Obviously there was some mistake or lack of attention on the part of the choir, for the last line had to be repeated three times. " _Because they were not. _"	{ "id": "17733" }
51	THE MARSHAL'S CHAMBER	There came a low voice in Laurence MacKim's ear, chill and sinister: "You do well to look out upon the fair world. None knoweth when we may have to leave it. Yonder is a star. Look well at it. They say God made it. Perhaps He takes more interest in it than in the concerns of this other world He hath made." The son of Malise MacKim gripped himself, as it were, with both hands, and turned a face pale as marble to look into the grim countenance which hid the soul of the Lord of Machecoul. Gilles de Retz appeared to peruse each feature of the boy's person as if he read in a book. Yet even as Laurence gave back glance for glance, and with the memory of what he had seen yet fresh upon him, a strange courage began to glow in the heart of the young Scot. There came a kind of contempt, too, into his breast, as though he had it in him to be a man in despite of the devil and all his works. The marshal continued his scrutiny, and Laurence returned his gaze with interest. "Well, boy," said the marshal, smiling as if not ill pleased at his boldness, "what do you think of me?" "I think, sir," said Laurence, simply, "that you have grown older since I saw you in the lists at Thrieve." It seemed to Laurence that the words were given him. And all the time he was saying to himself: "Now I have done it. For this he will surely put me to death. He cannot help himself. Why did I not stick to it that I was an Irelander?" But, somehow, the answer seemed like an arrow from a bow shot at a venture, entering in between the joints of the marshal's armour. "Do you think so?" he said, with some startled anxiety, yet without surprise; "older than at Thrieve? I do not believe it. It is impossible. Why, I grow younger and younger every day. It has been promised me that I should." And setting his elbow on the sill of the window, Gilles de Retz looked thoughtfully out upon the cool dusk of the rose garden. Then all at once it came to him what was implied in that unlucky speech of Laurence's. The grim intensity returned to his eyes as he erected himself and bent his brows, white with premature age, upon the boy, who confronted him with the fearlessness born of youth and ignorance. "Ah," he said, "this is interesting; you have changed your nation. You were an Irishman to De Sillé in Paris, to the clerk Henriet, and to the choir at Machecoul. Yet to me you admit in the very first words you speak that you are a Scot and saw me at the Castle of Thrieve." Even yet the old Laurence might have turned the corner. He had, as we know, graduated as a liar ready and expert. He had daily practised his art upon the Abbot. He had even, though more rarely, succeeded with his father. But now in the day of his necessity the power and wit had departed from him. To the lord of the Castle of Machecoul Laurence simply could not lie. Ringed as he was by evil, his spirit became strong for good, and he testified like one in the place of final judgment, when the earthly lendings of word and phrase and covering excuse must all be cast aside and the soul stand forth naked and nakedly answer that which is required. "I am a Scot," said Laurence, briefly, and without explanation. "Come with me into my chamber," said the marshal, and turned to precede him thither. And without word of complaint or backward glance, the lad followed the great lord to the chamber, into which so many had gone before him of the young and beautiful of the earth, and whence so few had come out alive. As he passed the threshold, Laurence put into his mouth the elastic pellet which had been given him by Blaise Renouf, the choir-master's son. The marshal threw himself upon a chair, reclining with a wearied air upon the hands which were clasped behind his head. In the action of throwing himself back one could see that Gilles de Retz was a young and not an old man, though ordinarily his vitality had been worn to the quick, and both in appearance and movement he was already prematurely aged. "What is your name?" The question came with military directness from the lips of the marshal of France. "Laurence MacKim," said the lad, with equal directness. "For what purpose did you come to the Castle of Machecoul?" "I came," said Laurence, coolly, "to take service with you, my lord. And because I was tired of monk rule, and getting only the husks of life, tired too of sitting dumb and watching others eat the kernel." "Ha!" cried Gilles de Retz, "I am with you there. There is, after all, some harmony between our immortal parts. For my part, I would have all of life,--husk, kernel, stalk,--aye, and the root that grows amid the dung." He paused a moment, looking at Laurence with the air of a connoisseur. "Come hither, lad," he said, with a soft and friendly accent; "sit on this seat with your back to the window. Turn your head so that the lamp shines aright upon your face. You are not so handsome as was reported, but that there is something wondrously taking about your countenance, I do admit. There--sit so, and fear nothing." Laurence sat down with the bad grace of a manly youth who is admired for what he privately despises, and wishes himself well quit of. But, notwithstanding this, there was something so insinuating and pleasant about the marshal's manner that the lad almost thought he must have dreamed the incident of the burned door and the sacrifice upon the iron altar. "You came hither to search for Margaret of Douglas," said the marshal, suddenly bending forward as if to take him by surprise. Laurence, wholly taken aback, answered neither yea nor nay, but held his peace. Then Gilles de Retz nodded sagely, with a quiet satisfaction in his own prevision, which to one less bold and reckless than the young clerk of Dulce Cor would have proved disconcerting. Then he propounded his next question: "How many came hither with you?" "One," said Laurence, promptly; "I came here alone with your servant De Sillé." The marshal smiled. "Good--we will try some other method with you," he said; "but be advised and speak. None hath ever hidden aught from Gilles de Retz." "Then, my lord," said Laurence, "there is the less reason for you to put me to the question." "I can expound dark speeches," said the marshal, "and I also know my way through the subtleties of lying tongues. Hope not to lie to me. How many were they that came to France with you?" "I will not tell you," said the son of Malise. The marshal smiled again and nodded his head repeatedly with a certain gustful appreciation. "You would make a good soldier. It is a pity that I have gone out of the business. Yet I have only (as it were) descended from wholesale to particular, from the gross to the detail." Laurence, who felt that the true policy was to be sparing of his words, made no answer. "You say that you are a clerk. Can you read Latin?" "Yes," said Laurence, "and write it too." "Read this, then," said the marshal, and handed him a book. Laurence had been well instructed in the humanities by Father Colin of Saint Michael's Kirk by the side of Dee water, and he read the words, which record the cruelties of the Emperor Caligula with exactness and decorum. "You read not ill," said his auditor; "you have been well taught, though you have a vile foreign accent and know not the shades of meaning that lie in the allusions. "You say that you came to Machecoul with desire to serve me," the marshal continued after a pause for thought. "In what manner did you think you could serve, and why went you not into the house of some other lord?" "As to service," said Laurence, "I came because I was invited by your henchman de Sillé. And as to what I can do, I profess that I can sing, having been well taught by a master, the best in my country. I can play upon the viol and eke upon the organ. I am fairly good at fence, and excellent as any at singlestick. I can faithfully carry a message and loyally serve those who trust me. I would have some money to spend, which I have never had. I wish to live a life worth living, wherein is pleasure and pain, the lack of sameness, and the joy of things new. And if that may not be--why, I am ready to die, that I may make proof whether there be anything better beyond." "A most philosophic creed," cried the marshal. "Well, there is one thing in which I can prove, if indeed you lie not. Sing!" Then Laurence stood up and sang, even as the choir had done, the lamentation of Rachel according to the setting of the Roman precentor. " _A voice was heard in Ramah! _" And as he sang, the Lord of Retz took up the strain, and, with true accord and feeling, accompanied him to the end. [Illustration: THE PRISONERS OF THE WHITE TOWER.] "Brava!" cried Gilles de Retz when Laurence had finished; "that is truly well sung indeed! You shall sing it alone in my chapel next feast day of the Holy Innocents." He paused as if to consider his words. "And now for this time go. But remember that this Castle of Machecoul is straiter than any prison cell, and better guarded than a fortress. It is surrounded with constant watchers, secret, invisible, implacable. Whoso tries to escape, dies. You are a bold lad, and, as I think, fear not much death for yourself. But come hither, and I will show you something which will chain you here." With a kind of solicitous familiarity the Marshal de Retz took the lad by the arm and drew him to another window on the further side of the keep. "Look forth and tell me what you see," he said. Laurence set his head out of the window. He looked upon an intricate mass of building, composing the western wing of the castle, and it was some moments before he could distinguish what the Sieur de Retz wished him to see. Then, as his eyes took in the details, he saw on the flat roof of a square tower beneath him two maidens seated, and when he looked closer--lo! they were Margaret Douglas and, beside her, his brother's sweetheart Maud Lindesay. These two were sitting hand in hand, as was their wont, and the head of the child was bowed almost to her friend's knee. Maud's arm was about Margaret's neck, and her fingers caressed the childish tangle of hair. Presently the elder lifted the younger upon her knee and hushed her like a mother who puts a tired child to sleep. Immediately behind this group, in the shadow of a buttress, Laurence saw a tall man, masked, clad in a black suit, and with a drawn sword in his hand. The marshal looked out over the lad's shoulder. "The day you are missed from the Castle of Machecoul, or the day that the rest of your company arrives here, that sword shall fall, but in a more terrible fashion than I can tell you! That sentinel can neither hear nor speak, but he has his orders and will obey them. I bid you good night. Go to your singing in the choir. It is time for the chanting of vespers in the chapel of the Holy Innocents."	{ "id": "17733" }
52	THE JESTING OF LA MEFFRAYE	It was in the White Tower of Machecoul that the Scottish maidens were held at the mercy of the Lord of Retz. At their first arrival in the country they had been taken to the quiet Chateau of Pouzauges, the birthplace of Poitou, the marshal's most cruel and remorseless confidant. Here, as the marshal had very truly informed the Lady Sybilla, they had been under the care of--or, rather, fellow-prisoners with--the neglected wife of Gilles de Retz, and at Pouzauges they had spent some days of comparative peace and security in the society of her daughter. But at the first breath of the coming of the three strangers to the district they had been seized and securely conveyed to Machecoul itself--there to be interned behind the vast walls and triple bastions of that fortress prison. "I wonder, Maudie," said Margaret Douglas, as they sat on the flat roof of the White Tower of Machecoul and looked over the battlements upon the green pine glades and wide seaward Landes, "I wonder whether we shall ever again see the water of Dee and our mother--and Sholto MacKim." It is to be feared that the last part of the problem exceeded in interest all others in the eyes of Maud Lindesay. "It seems as if we never could again behold any one we loved or wished to see--here in this horrible place," sighed Maud Lindesay. "If ever I get back to the dear land and see Solway side, I will be a different girl." "But, Maud," said the little maid, reproachfully, "you were always good and kind. It is not well done of you to speak against yourself in that fashion." Maud Lindesay shook her pretty head mournfully. "Ah, Margaret, you will know some day," she said. "I have been wicked,--not in things one has to confess to Father Gawain, but,--well, in making people like me, and give me things, and come to see me, and then afterwards flouting them for it and sending them away." It was not a lucid description, but it sufficed. "Ah, but," said Margaret Douglas, "I think not these things to be wicked. I hope that some day I shall do just the same, though, of course, I shall not be as beautiful as you, Maudie; no, never! I asked Sholto MacKim if I would, and he said, 'Of course not!' in a deep voice. It was not pretty of him, was it, Maud?" "I think it was very prettily said of him," answered Maud Lindesay, with the first flicker of a smile on her face. Her conscience was quite at ease about Sholto. He was different. Whatever pain she had caused him, she meant to make up to him with usury thereto. The others she had exercised no more for her own amusement than for their own souls' good. "My brother William must indeed be very angry with us, that he hath never sent to find us and bring us home," went on the little girl. "It is three months since we met that horrible old woman in the woods above Thrieve Island, and believed her when she told us that the Earl had instant need of us--and that Sholto MacKim was with him." "None saw us taken away. Margaret," said the elder, "and perhaps, who knows, they may never have found any of the pieces of flower garlands I threw down before they put us in the boats from the beach of Cassencary." But the eyes of the little Maid of Galloway were now fixed upon something in the green courtyard below. "Maud, Maud, come hither quickly!" she whispered; "if yonder be not Laurence MacKim talking to the singing lads and dressed like them--why, then, I do not know Laurie MacKim!" Maud came quickly now. Her face and neck blushed suddenly crimson with the springing of hope in her heart. She looked down, and there, far below them indeed, but yet distinct enough, they saw Laurence daring Blaise Renouf to single combat and vaunting his Irish prowess, as we have already seen him do. Maud Lindesay caught her companion's hand as she looked. "They have found us," she whispered; "at least, they are seeking for us. If Laurence is here, I warrant Sholto cannot be very far away. Oh, Margaret, am I looking very ill? Will he think I am as--(she paused for a word)--as comely as he thought me before in Scotland? Or have I grown old and ugly with being shut up so long?" But the Maid of Galloway heard her not. She was pondering on the meaning of Laurence's presence in the Castle of Machecoul. "Perhaps William hath sent Laurence to spy us out, and is even now coming from his French duchy with an army. He is a far greater man than the marshal, and will make him give us up as soon as he finds out where we are. Shall I call down to Laurie to let him know that we are here?" Maud put her hand hastily over her companion's mouth. "Hush!" she said, "we must not appear to know him, or they will surely kill him--and perhaps the others, too. If Laurence is here, I wot well that help is not far away. Let us be patient and abide. Come back from the wall and sit by me as if nothing, had happened." But all the same she kept her own place in a spot where she could command the pleasaunce below, and looked longingly yet fearfully to see Sholto follow his brother across the green sward. * * * * * "Sweet and fair is the air of the evening," purred behind them a low voice--that of the woman who was called La Meffraye. "It brings the colour to the cheeks of the young. But I am old and wise, and I would advise that two maids so fair should not look down on the sports of the youths, lest they hear and see more than is fitting for such innocent eyes." The girls turned away without looking at their custodian, who stood leaning upon her little hand crutch and smiling upon them her terrible soft smile. "Ah," she said, "proud, are you? 'Tis an ill place to bring pride to, this Castle of Machecoul. You will not deign to speak a word to a poor old woman now. But the day is not far distant when I shall have my pretty spitfire clinging about these old trembling knees, and beseeching me whom you despise, as a woman either to save you or kill you--you will not care which. _As a woman! _ Ha! ha! How long is it since La Meffraye was a woman? Was she ever rocked in a cradle? Did she play about any cottage door and fashion daisy chains, as I have seen you do, my pretties, long ere you came to Machecoul or even heard of the Sieur de Retz? Hath La Meffraye ever lain in any man's bosom--save as the tigress crouches upon her prey?" She paused and smiled still more bitterly and malevolently than before upon the two maidens. "Did you chance to be awake yester-even?" she went on. "Aye, I know well that you were awake. La Meffraye saw right carefully to that. And you heard the crying that rang out of yonder high window, from which the light streamed all through the night. Wait, wait, my pretties, till it is your turn to be sent for up thither, when the shining knife is sharpened and the red fire kindled. You will not despise La Meffraye when that day comes. You will grovel and weep, and then will La Meffraye spurn you with her foot, till the noise of your crying be borne out over the forest, and for very gladness the wolves howl in the darkness." The little Maid of Galloway was moved to answer, and her lips quivered. But Maud Lindesay sat pale and motionless, looking towards the north, from which she hoped for help to come. "Our brother, the Earl of Douglas, will bring an army from his dukedom of Touraine, and sweep you and your castle from the face of the earth, if your master dares to lay so much as a finger upon us." La Meffraye laughed a low, cackling laugh, and in the act showed the four long eye-teeth which were the sole remaining dental equipment of her mouth. "Oh, Great Barran--" she chuckled, "listen to the pretty fool! Our brother will do this--our brother will do that. _Our_ brother will lick the country of Retz as clean as a dog licks a platter. Know you not, silly fool, that both your brothers are long since dead and under sod in the castle of your city of Edinburgh. I tell you my master set his little finger upon them and crushed them like flies on a summer chamber wall!" Maud Lindesay rose to her feet as La Meffraye spoke these words. "It is not true," she cried; "you lie to us as you have done from the first. The Earl of Douglas is not dead!" It was now little Margaret who showed the spirit of her race, and put out her hand to clasp that of her elder comrade. "Do not let her even know that she has power to hurt us with her words," she whispered low to Maud Lindesay. Then she spoke aloud: "If that which you say be true and my brothers are dead--there are yet Douglases. Our cousins will deliver us." "Your cousins have entered into your possessions," jeered the hag; "it is indeed a likely thing that they will desire your return to Scotland in order to rob them of that which is their own." "We are not afraid," said the little maid, stoutly; "there are many in the land of the Scots who would gladly die to help us." "Aye, that is it. They shall die--all die. Three of them died yester-even, torn to pieces by my lord's wolves. Fine, swift, four-footed guardians of the Castle of Machecoul--La Meffraye's friends! And one young cock below there of the same gang hath gone even now to my lord's chamber. He hath mounted the stairs he will never descend." "Well," said the Maid of Galloway, "even so--we are not afraid. We can die, as died our friends." "Die--die!" cried the hag, sharply, angered at the child's persistence. " 'Tis easy to talk. To snuff a candle out is to die. Poof, 'tis done! But the young and beautiful like you, my dearies, do not so die at Machecoul. No; rather as a dying candle flickers out--falls low, and rises again, so they die. As wine oozes drop by drop from the needle-punctured wine-skin--so shall you die, weeping, beseeching, drained to the white like a dripping calf in the shambles, yet at the same time reddened and shamed with the shame deadly and unnameable. Then La Meffraye, whom now you disdain to answer with a look, will wash her hands in your life's blood and laugh as your tears fall slowly upon the latchet of her shoon!" But a new voice broke in upon the railing of the hideous woman fiend. " _Out, foul hag! Get you to your own place! _" it said, with an accent strong and commanding. And the affrighted and heart-sick girls turned them about to see the Lady Sybilla stand fair and pale at the head of the turret stair which opened out upon the roof of the White Tower. At this interruption the eyes of La Meffraye seemed to burn with a fresher fury, and the green light in them shone as shines an emerald stone held up to the sun. The hag cowered, however, before the outstretched index finger of Sybilla de Thouars. "Ah, fair lady," she whimpered, "be not angry--and tell not my lord, I beseech you. I did but jest." " _Hence! _" the finger was still outstretched, and, in obedience to the threatening gesture, the hag shrank away. But as she passed through the portal down the steps of the turret, she flung back certain words with a defiant fleer. "Ah, you are young, my lady, and for the present--for the present your power is greater than mine. But wait! Your beauty will wither and grow old. Your power will depart from you. But La Meffraye can never grow older, and when once the secret is discovered, and my lord is young again, La Meffraye is the one who with him shall bloom with immortal youth, while you, proud lady, lie cold in the belly of the worm." * * * * * "It is true--all too true," said Sybilla de Thouars, sadly, "they are dead. The young, the noble were--and are no more. I who speak saw them die. And that so greatly, that even in death their lives cease not. Their glory shall flow on so that the young brook shall become a river, and the river become a sea." Then in few words and quiet, she told them all the heavy tale. But when the maids made as though they would cleave to her for the sympathy that was in her words and because of her tears, she set the palms of her hands against their breasts and cried, "Come not near one whom not all the fires of purgatory can purify--one who, like Iscariot, hath contracted herself outside the mercy of God and of our Lord Christ!" But all the more they clave to her, overpassing her protestations and clasping her, so that, being deeply moved, she sat down on the steps of a corner turret which rose from the greater, and wept there, with the weeping wherewith women are wont to ease the heart. Then went Maud Lindesay to her and set her hand about her neck, and kissed her, saying: "Do not be sorry any more. Confess to the minister of God. I also have sinned and been sorry. Yet after came forgiveness and the unbound heart." Then the Lady Sybilla ceased quickly and looked up, as it had been, smiling. Yet she was not smiling as maidens are wont to smile. "Pretty innocent," she said, "you mean well, but you know not what the word 'sin' means to such as I. Confess--absolve! Not even the Holy One and the Just could give me that. I tell you I have eaten of the apple of the knowledge of good and evil--yes, the very core I have eaten. I have the taste of innocent blood upon my lips. I have seen the axe fall, the axe which I put into the headsman's hands. I am condemned, and that justly. But one of you shall live to taste sweet love, and the crown of life, and to feel the innocent lips of children at her breasts. And the other--but enough. Farewell. Fear not. God, who has been cruel in all else, has given your lives to Sybilla de Thouars, ere in His own time He strike that guilty one with His thunderbolt." And as she went within, the eyes of the maids followed her; but the masked man with the naked sword never so much as turned his head, gazing straight forward over the battlements of the White Tower into the lilac mist which hung above the Atlantic.	{ "id": "17733" }
53	SYBILLA'S VENGEANCE	There stands a solitary rock at the base of which is a cave, on the seashore of La Vendée. Behind stretch the marshes, and the place is shut in and desolate. Birds cry there. The bittern booms in the thickets of grey willow and wet-shot alder. The herons nest upon the pine trees near by, till the stale scent of them comes down the wind from far. Ospreys fish in the waters of the shallow lake behind, and the scales of their prey flash in the sun of morning as they rise dripping from the dive. In this place Sholto, Malise, and the Lord James Douglas were presently abiding. It was but a tiny cell, originally formed by two portions of marly rock fallen together in some ancient convulsion or dropped upon each other from a floating iceberg. In some former age the cleft had been a lair of wild beasts, or the couch of some hairy savage hammering flint arrowheads for the chase, and drawing with a sharp point upon polished bone the yet hairier mammoth he hunted. But this solitary lodging in the wilderness had been enlarged in more recent times, till now the interior was about eight feet square and of the height of a man of stature when he stands erect. The hearts of the three present cave-dwellers were sick and sad, and of them all the bitterest was the heart of Sholto MacKim. It seemed to his eager lover's spirit, as he climbed to the top of the sand dunes and gazed towards the massive towers of Machecoul rising above the green woodlands, that hitherto they had but wandered and done nothing. The sorcerer had prevented them about with his evil. They had lost Laurence utterly, and for the rest they had not even touched the outer defences of their arch enemy. Thrice they had tried to enter the castle. The first time they had taken by force two waggons of fuel from certain men who went towards Machecoul, leaving the woodmen behind in the forest, bound and helpless. But at the first gate of the outer hall the marshal's guard had stopped them, and demanded that they should wait till the cars were unloaded and brought back to them. So, having received the money, the Scots returned as they went to the men whom they had left in the forest. After this repulse they had gone round and round the vast walls of Machecoul seeking a place vulnerable, but finding none. The ramparts rose as it had been to heaven, and the flanking towers were crowded night and day with men on the watch. Round the walls for the space of a bow-shot every way there ran a green space fair and open to the view, but in reality full of pitfalls and secret engines. From the battlements began the arrow hail, so soon as any attempted to approach the castle along any other way than the thrice-defended road to the main gate. The wolves howled in the forests by night, and more than once came so near that one of the three men had to take it in turns to keep watch in the cave's mouth. But for a reason not clear to them at the time they were not again attacked by the marshal's wild allies of the wood. The third time they had tried to enter the castle in their pilgrim's garb, and the outer picket courteously received them. But when they were come to the inner curtain, one Robin Romulart, the officer of the guard, a stout fellow, suddenly called to his men to bind and gag them--in which enterprise, but for the great strength of Malise, they might have succeeded. For the outer gates had been shut with a clang, and they could hear the soldiers of the garrison hasting from all sides in answer to Robin's summons. But Malise snatched up the bar wherewith the winding cogs of the gate were turned, and, having broken more than one man's head with it, he forced the massive doors apart by main force, so that they were able all unharmed to withdraw themselves into the shelter of the woods. So near capture had they been, however, that over and over again they heard the shouting of the parties who scoured the woods in search of them. It was the worst feature of their situation that the Marshal de Retz certainly knew of their presence in his territories, and that he would be easily able to guess their errand and take measures to prevent it succeeding. Their last and most fatal failure had happened several days before, and the first eager burst of the search for them had passed. But the Scots knew that the enemy was thoroughly alarmed, and that it behoved them to abide very closely within their hiding-place. The Lord James took worst of all with the uncertainty and confinement. Any restraint was unsuited to his jovial temper and open-air life. But for the present, at least, and till they could gain some further information as to the whereabouts of the maidens, it was obvious that they could do no better than remain in their seaside shelter. Their latest plan was to abide in the cave till the marshal set out again upon one of his frequent journeys. Then it would be comparatively easy to ascertain by an ambush whether he was taking the captives with him, or if he had left them behind. If the maids were of his travelling company, the three rescuers would be guided by circumstances and the strength of the escort, as to whether or not they should venture to make an attack. But if by any unhoped-for chance Margaret and Maud were left behind at Machecoul, it would at least be a more feasible enterprise to attack the fortress during the absence of its master and his men. Alone among the three Scots Malise faced their predicament with some philosophy. Sholto ate his heart out with uncertainty as to the fate of his sweetheart. The Lord James chafed at the compulsory confinement and at the consistent ill success which had pursued them. But Malise, unwearied of limb and ironic of mood as ever, fished upon the tidal flats for brown-spotted flounders and at the rocky points for white fish, often remaining at his task till far into the night. He constructed snares with a mechanical ingenuity in advance of his age. And what was worth more to the company than any material help, he kept up the spirits of Sholto and of Lord James Douglas both by his brave heart and merry speech, and still more by constantly finding them something to do. At the hour of even, one day after they had been a fortnight in the country of Retz, the three Scots were sitting moodily on a little hillock which concealed the entrance to their cave. The forest lay behind them, an impenetrable wall of dense undergrowth crowned along the distant horizon by the solemn domes of green stone pines. It circumvented them on all sides, save only in front, where, through several beaker-shaped breaks in the high sand dunes they could catch a glimpse of the sea. The Atlantic appeared to fill these clefts half full, like Venice goblets out of which the purple wine has been partially drained. To right and left the pines grew scantier, so that the rays of the sunset shone red as molten metal upon their stems and made a network of alternate gold and black behind them. The three sat thus a long time without speech, only looking up from their tasks to let their eyes rest wistfully for a moment upon the deep and changeful amethyst of the sea, and then with a light sigh going back to the cleaning of their armoury or the shaping of a long bow. It chanced that for several minutes no sound was heard except those connected with their labour, the low whistle with which the Lord James accompanied his polishing, the _wisp-wisp_ of Malise's arms as he sewed the double thread back and forth through a rent in his leathern jack, and the rasp of Sholto's file as he carved out the finials of the bow, the notched grooves wherein the string was to lie so easily and yet so firmly. Thus they continued to work, absorbed, each of them in the sadness of his own thought, till suddenly a shadow seemed to strike between them and the red light of the western sky. They looked up, and before them, as it were ascending out of the very glow of sunset, they saw a woman on a white palfrey approaching them by the way of the sea. So suddenly did she appear that the Lord James uttered a low cry of wonder, while Malise the practical reached for his sword. But Sholto had seen this vision twice already, and knew their visitor for the Lady Sybilla. "Hold there!" he said in an undertone. "Remember it is as I said. This woman, though we have no cause to love her, is now our only hope. Her words brought us here. They were true words, and I believe that she comes as a friend. I will stake my life on it." "Or if she comes as an enemy we are no worse off," grumbled sceptical Malise. "We can at least encourage the woman and then hold her as an hostage." The three Scots were standing to receive their guest when the Lady Sybilla rode up. Her face had lost none of the pale sadness which marked it when Sholto last saw her, and though the look of utter agony had passed away, the despair of a soul in pain had only become more deeply printed upon it. The girl having acknowledged their salutations with a stately and well-accustomed motion of the head, reached a hand for Sholto to lift her from her palfrey. Then, still without spoken word, she silently seated herself on the grey-lichened rock rudely shaped into the semblance of a chair, on which Malise had been sitting at his mending. The strange maiden looked long at the blue sea deepening in the notches of the sand dunes beneath them. The three men stood before her waiting for her to speak. Each of them knew that lives, dearer and more precious than their own, hung upon what she might have to say. At last she spoke, in a voice low as the wind when it blows its lightest among the trees: "You have small cause to trust me or to count me your friend," she said; "but we have that which binds closer than friendship--a common enemy and a common cause of hatred. It were better, therefore, that we should understand one another. I have never lost sight of you since you came to this fatal land of Retz. I have been near you when you knew it not. To accomplish this I have deceived the man who is my taskmaster, swearing to him that in the witch crystal I have seen you depart. And I shall yet deceive him in more deadly fashion." Sholto could restrain himself no longer. "Enough," he said roughly; "tell us whether the maidens are alive, and if they are abiding in this Castle of Machecoul." The Lady Sybilla did not remove her eyes from the red west. "Thus far they are safe," she said, in the same calm monotone. "This very hour I have come from the White Tower, in which they are confined. But he whom I serve swears by an oath that if you or other rescuers are heard of again in this country, he will destroy them both." She shuddered as she spoke with a strong revulsion of feeling. "Therefore, be careful with a great carefulness. Give up all thought of rescuing them directly. Remember what you have been able to accomplish, and that your slightest actions will bring upon those you love a fate of which you little dream." "After what we remember of Crichton Castle, how can we trust you, lady?" said Malise, sternly. "Do you now speak the truth with your mouth?" "You have indeed small cause to think so," she answered without taking offence. "Yet, having no choice, you must e'en trust me." She turned sharply upon Sholto with a strip of paper in her outstretched hand. "I think, young sir, that you have some reason to know from whom that comes." Sholto grasped at the writing with a new and wonderful hope in his heart. He knew instinctively before he touched it that none but Maud Lindesay could have written that script--small, clear, and distinct as a motto cut on a gem. " _To our friends in France and Scotland,_" so it ran. " _We are still safe this eve of the Blessed Saint Michael. Trust her who brings this letter. She is our saviour and our only hope in a dark and evil place. She is sorry for that which by her aid hath been done. As you hope for forgiveness, forgive her. And for God's dear sake, do immediately the thing she bids you. This comes from Margaret de Douglas and Maud Lindesay. It is written by the hand of M. L._" The wax at the bottom was sealed in double with the boar's head of Lindesay and the heart of Margaret of Douglas. Sholto, having read the missive silently, passed it to the Lord James that he might prove the seals, for it was his only learning to be skilled in heraldry. "It is true," he said; "I myself gave the little maid that ring. See, it hath a piece broken from the peak of the device." "My lady," said Sholto, "that which you bring is more than enough. We kiss your hand and we will sacredly do all your bidding, were it unto the death or the trial by fire." Then, as was the custom to do to ladies whom knights would honour, the Lord James and Sholto kneeled down and kissed the hand of Sybilla de Thouars. But Malise, not being a knight, took it only and settled it upon his great grizzled head, where it rested for a moment, lightly as upon some grey and ancient tower lies a flake of snow before it melts. "I thank you for your overmuch courtesy," the girl said, casting her eyes on the ground with a new-born shyness most like that of a modest maid; "I thank you, indeed. You do me honour far above my desert. Still, after all, we work for one end. You have, it is true, the nobler motive,--the lives of those you love; but I the deadlier,--the death of one I hate! Hearken!" She paused as if to gather strength for that which she had to reveal, and then, reaching her hands out, she motioned the three men to gather more closely about her, as if the blue Atlantic waves or the red boles of the pine trees might carry the matter. "Listen," she said, "the end comes fast--faster than any know, save I, to whom for my sins the gift of second sight hath been given. I who speak to you am of Brittany and of the House of De Thouars. To one of us in each generation descends this abhorred gift of second sight. And I, because as a child it was my lot to meet one wholly given over to evil, have seen more and clearer than all that have gone before me. But now I do foresee the end of the wickedest and most devilish soul ever prisoned within the body of man." As she spoke the heads of the three Scots bent lower and closer to catch every word, for the voice of the Lady Sybilla was more like the cooing of a mating turtle as it answers its comrade than that of a woman betrayed, denouncing vengeance and death upon him whom her soul hated. "Be of good heart, then, and depart as I shall bid you. None can help or hinder here at Machecoul but I alone. Be sure that at the worst the unnameable shall not happen to the maids. For in me there is the power to slay the evil-doer. But slay I will not unless it be to keep the lives of the maids. Because I desire for Gilles de Retz a fate greater, more terrible, more befitting iniquity such as the world hath never heard spoken of since it arose from the abyss. "And this is it given to me to bring upon him whom my soul hateth," she went on. "I have seen the hempen cord by which he shall hang. I have seen the fire through which his soul shall pass to its own place. Through me this fate shall come upon him suddenly in one night." Her face lighted up with an inner glow, and shone translucent in the darkening of the day and the dusk of the trees, as if the fair veil of flesh wavered and changed about the vengeful soul within. "And now," she went on after a pause, "I bid you, gentlemen of the house of Douglas, to depart to John, Duke of Brittany, and having found him to lay this paper before him. It contains the number and the names of those who have died in the castles of de Retz. It shows in what hidden places the bones of these slaughtered innocents may be found. Clamour in his ear for justice in the name of the King of France, and if he will not hear, then in the name of the folk of Brittany. And if still because of his kinship he will not listen, go to the Bishop of Nantes, who hates Gilles de Retz. Better than any he knows how to stir the people, and he will send with you trusty men to cause the country to rise in rebellion. Then they will overturn all the castles of de Retz, and the hidden things shall come to light. This do, and for this time depart from Machecoul, and entrust me (as indeed you must) with the honour and lives of those you love. I will keep them with mine own until destruction pass upon him who is outcast from God, and whom now his own fiend from hell hath deserted." Then, having sworn to do her bidding, the three Scots conducted the Lady Sybilla with honour and observance to her white palfrey, and like a spirit she vanished into the sea mists which had sifted up from the west, going back to the drear Castle of Machecoul, but bearing with her the burden of her revenge.	{ "id": "17733" }
54	THE CROSS UNDER THE APRON	The face of Gilles de Laval, Lord of Retz, had shone all day with an unholy lustre like that of iron in which the red heat yet struggles with the black. In the Castle of Machecoul his familiars went about, wearing expressions upon their countenances in which disgust and expectation were mingled with an overwhelming fear of the terrible baron. The usual signs of approaching high saturnalia at Machecoul had not been wanting. Early in the morning La Meffraye had been seen hovering like an unclean bird of prey about the playing grounds of the village children at Saint Benoit on the edges of the forest. At nine the frightened villagers heard the howl of a day-hunting wolf, and one Louis Verger, a woodman who was cutting bark for the tanneries in the valley, saw a huge grey wolf rush out and seize his little son, Jean, a boy of five years old, who came bringing his father's breakfast. With a great cry he hurried back to alarm the village, but when men gathered with scythes and rude weapons of the chase, the beast's track was lost in the depth of the forest. Little Jean Verger of Saint Benoit was never seen again, unless it were he who, half hidden under the long black cloak of La Meffraye, was brought at noon by the private postern of the baron into the Castle of Machecoul. So the men of Saint Benoit went not back to their work, but abode together all that day, sullen anger burning in their hearts. And one calling himself the servant of the Bishop of Nantes went about among them, and his words were as knives, sharp and bitter beyond belief. And ever as he spoke the men turned them about till they faced Machecoul. Their lips moved like those of a Moslemite who says his prayers towards Mecca. And the words they uttered were indeed prayers of solemnest import. With his usual devotion at such seasons, Gilles de Retz had attended service thrice that day in his Chapel of the Holy Innocents. His behaviour had been marked by intense devoutness. An excessive tenderness of conscience had characterised his confessions to Père Blouyn, his spiritual director-in-ordinary. He confessed as his most flagrant sin that his thoughts were overmuch set on the vanities of the world, and that he had even sometimes been tempted of the devil to question the right of Holy Church herself to settle all questions according to the will of her priests and prelates. Whereupon Père Blouyn, with suave correctness of judgment, had pointed out wherein his master erred; but also cautioned him against that undue tenderness of conscience natural to one with his exalted position and high views of duty and life. Finally the marshal had received absolution. In the late afternoon the Lord of Retz commanded the fire to be laid ready for lighting in his chamber aloft in the keep of Machecoul, and set himself down to listen to the singing of the choir, which, under the guidance of Precentor Renouf, rehearsed for him the sweetest hymns recently written for the choir of the Holy Father at Rome. For there the marshal's choir-master had been trained, and with its leader he still kept up a correspondence upon kindred interests. Gilles de Retz, as he sat under the late blooming roses in the afternoon sunshine of the autumn of western France, appeared to the casual eye one of the most noble seigneurs and the most enlightened in the world. He affected a costume already semiecclesiastic as a token of his ultimate intention to enter holy orders. It seemed indeed as if the great soldier who had ridden into Orleans with Dunois and the Maid had begun to lay aside his earthly glories and seek the heavenly. There, upon a chair set within the cloisters, in a place which the sunshine touched most lovingly and where it lingered longest, he sat, nodding his head to the sound of the sweet singing, and bowing low at each mention of the name of Jesus (as the custom is)--a still, meditative, almost saintly man. Upon the lap of his furred robe (for, after all, it was a sunshine with a certain shrewd wintriness in it) lay an illuminated copy of the Holy Gospels; and sometimes as he listened to the choir-boys singing, he glanced therein, and read of the little children to whom belongs the kingdom. Upon occasion he lifted the book also, and looked with pleasure at the pictured cherubs who cheered the way of the Master Jerusalemwards with strewn palm leaves and shouted hosannas. And ever sweeter and sweeter fell the music upon his ear, till suddenly, like the silence after a thunderclap, the organ ceased to roll, the choir was silent, and out of the quiet rose a single voice--that of Laurence the Scot singing in a tenor of infinite sweetness the words of blessing: "_Suffer the little children to come unto Me, And forbid them not; For of such is the Kingdom of Heaven. _" And as the boy's voice welled out, clear and thrilling as the song of an upward pulsing lark, the tears ran down the face of Gilles de Retz. God knows why. Perhaps it was some glint of his own innocent childhood--some half-dimmed memory of his happily dead mother. Perhaps--but enough. Gilles de Laval de Retz went up the turret stair to find Poitou and Gilles de Sillé on guard on either side the portals which closed his chamber. "Is all ready?" he asked, though the tears were scarcely dry on his cheeks. They bowed before him to the ground. "All is ready, lord and master," they said as with one voice. "And Prelati?" "He is in waiting." "And La Meffraye," he went on, "has she arrived?" "La Meffraye has arrived," they said; "all goes fortunately." "Good!" said Gilles de Retz, and shedding his furred monkish cloak carelessly from off his shoulders, he went within. Poitou and Gilles de Sillé both reached to catch the mantle ere it fell. As they did so their hands met and touched. And at the meeting of each other's flesh they started and drew apart. Their eyes encountered furtively and were instantly withdrawn. Then, having hung up the cloak, with pallid countenances and lips white and tremulous, they slowly followed the marshal within. * * * * * "Sybilla de Thouars, as you are in my power, so I bid you work my will!" It was the deep, stern voice of the Marshal de Retz which spoke. The Lady Sybilla lay back in a great chair with her eyes closed, breathing slowly and gently through her parted lips. Messire Gilles stood before her with his hands joined palm to palm and his white fingertips almost touching the girl's brow. "Work my will and tell me what you see!" Her hands were clasped under a light silken apron which she wore descending from her neck and caught in a loose loop behind her gown. The fingers were firmly netted one over the other and clutched between them was a golden crucifix. The girl was praying, as one prays who dares not speak. "O God, who didst hang on this cross--keep now my soul. Condemn it afterwards, but help me to keep it this night. Deliver me--oh, deliver from the power of this man. Help me to lie. By Thy Son's blood, help me to lie well this night." "Where are the three men from the land of the Scots? Tell me what you see. Tell me all," the marshal commanded, still standing before her in the same posture. Then the voice of the Lady Sybilla began to speak, low and even, and with that strange halt at the end of the sentences. The Lord of Retz nodded, well pleased when he heard the sound. It was the voice of the seeress. Oftentimes he had heard it before, and it had never deceived him. "I see a boat on a stormy sea," she said; "there are three men in it. One is great of stature and very strong. The others are young men. They are trying to furl the sail. A gust strikes them. The boat heels and goes over. I see them struggling in the pit of waters. There are cliffs white and crumbling above them. They are calling for help as they cling to the boat. Now there is but one of them left. I see him trying to climb up the slippery rocks. He falls back each time. He is weary with much buffeting. The waves break about him and suck him under. Now I do not see the men any more, but I can hear the broken mast of the boat knocking hollow and dull against the rocks. Some few shreds of the sail are wrapped about it. But the three men are gone." She ceased suddenly. Her lips stopped their curiously detached utterance. But under her breath and deep in her soul Sybilla de Thouars was still praying as before. And this which follows was her prayer: "O God, his devil is surely departed from him. I thank thee, God of truth, for helping me to lie." "It is well," said Gilles de Retz, standing erect with a satisfied air. "All is well. The three Scots who sought my life are gone to their destruction. Now, Sybilla de Thouars, I bid you look upon John, Duke of Brittany. Tell me what he does and says." The level, impassive, detached voice began again. The hands clasped the cross of gold more closely under the silk apron. "I see a room done about with silver scallop shells and white-painted ermines. I see a fair, cunning-faced, soft man. Behind him stands one tall, spare, haggard--" "Pierre de l'Hopital, President of Brittany--one that hates me," said de Retz, grimly between his teeth. "I will meet my fingers about his dog's throat yet. What of him?" The Lady Sybilla, without a quiver of her shut eyelids took up the cue. "He hath his finger on a parchment. He strives to point out something to the fair-haired man, but that other shakes his head and will not agree--" The marshal suddenly grew intent, and even excited. "Look closer, Sybilla--look closer. Can you not read that which is written on the parchment? I bid you, by all my power, to read it." Then the countenance of the Lady Sybilla was altered. Striving and blank failure were alternately expressed upon it. "I cannot! Oh, I cannot!" she cried. "By my power, I bid you. By that which I will make you suffer if you fail me, I command you!" cried Gilles de Retz, bending himself towards her and pressing his fingers against her brow so that the points dented her skin. The tears sprang from underneath the dark lashes which lay so tremulously upon her white cheek. "You make me do it! It hurts! I cannot!" she said in the pitiful voice of a child. "Read--or suffer the shame!" cried Gilles de Retz. "I will--oh, I will! Be not angry," she answered pleadingly. And underneath the silk the hands were grasped with a grip like that of a vice upon the golden cross she had borrowed from the little Maid of Galloway. "Read me that which is written on the paper," said the marshal. The Lady Sybilla began to speak in a voice so low that Gilles de Retz had to incline his ear very close to her lips to listen. "Accusation against the great lord and most noble seigneur, Gilles de Laval de Retz, Sire de--" "That is it--go on after the titles," said the eager voice of the marshal. "Accused of having molested the messengers of his suzerain, the supreme Duke John of Brittany, accused of ill intent against the State; accused of quartering the arms-royal upon his shield; called to answer for these offences in the city of Nantes--and that is all." She ended abruptly, like one who is tired and desires no more than to sleep. Gilles de Retz drew a long sigh of relief. "All is hid," he said; "these things are less than nothing. What does the Duke?" "I cannot look again, I am weary," she said. "Look again!" thundered her taskmaster. "I see the fair-haired man take the parchment from the hand of the dark, stern man--" "With whom I will reckon!" "He tries to tear it in two, but cannot. He throws it angrily in the fire." "My enemies are destroyed," said Gilles de Retz, "I thank thee, great Barran-Sathanas. Thou hast indeed done that which thou didst promise. Henceforth I am thy servant and thy slave." So saying, he took a glass of water from the table and dashed it on the face of the Lady Sybilla. "Awake," he said, "you have done well. Go now and repose that you may again be ready when I have need of you." A flicker of conscious life appeared under the purple-veined eyelids of the Lady Sybilla. Her long, dark lashes quivered, tried to rise, and again lay still. The marshal took the illuminated copy of the Evangelists from the table and fanned her with the thin parchment leaves. "Awake!" he cried harshly and sternly. The eyes of the girl slowly opened their pupils dark and dilated. She carried her hand to her head, but wearily, as if even that slight movement pained her. The golden cross swung unseen under the silken folds of her apron. "I am so tired--so tired," the girl murmured to herself as Gilles de Retz assisted her to rise. Then hastily handing her over to Poitou, he bade him conduct her to her own chamber. But as she went through the door of the marshal's laboratory she looked upon the floor and smiled almost joyously. "His devil has indeed departed from him," she murmured to herself. "I thank the God of Righteousness who this night hath enabled me to baffle him with a woman's poor wit, and to lie to him that he may be led quick to destruction, and fall himself into the pit which he hath prepared for the feet of the innocent."	{ "id": "17733" }
55	THE RED MILK	Darkly and swiftly the autumn night descended upon Machecoul. In the streets of the little feudal bourg there were few passers-by, and such as there were clutched their cloaks tighter round them and scurried on. Or if they raised their heads, it was only to take a hasty, fearful glance at the vast bulk of the castle looming imminent above them. From a window high in the central keep a red light streamed out, and when the clouds flew low, strange dilated shadows were wont to be cast upon the rolling vapour. Sometimes smoke, acrid and heavy, bellied forth, and anon wild cries of pain and agony floated down to silence the footfalls of the home-returning rustics and chill the hearts of burghers trembling in their beds. But none dared to question in public the doings of the great and puissant lord of all the country of Retz. It fared not well with him who even looked too much at the things which were done. The night was yet darker up aloft in the Castle of Machecoul itself. In the sacristy good Father Blouyn, with an air of resigned reluctance, was handing over to an emissary of his master the moulds in which the tall altar candles for the Chapel of the Holy Innocents were usually cast and compacted. And as Clerk Henriet went out with the moulds he took a long look through a private spy-hole at the lads of the choir who were sitting in the hall apportioned to their use. They were supposed to be busy with their lessons, and, indeed, a few were poring over their books with some show of studious absorption. But for the most part they were playing at cards and dominos, or, in the absence of the master, sticking intimate pins and throwing about indiscriminate ink, according to the immemorial use of the choir-boy. Clerk Henriet counted them twice over and in especial looked carefully to see what did the young Scots lad, who had so mysteriously escaped from the dread room of his master. Laurence MacKim played X's and O's upon a board with Blaise Renouf, the precentor's son, and at some hitch in the game he incontinently clouted the Frenchman upon the ear. Whereupon ensued trouble and the spilling of much ink. Henriet, perfectly satisfied, took up the heavy moulds and made his way to his lord's chamber, where many things were used for purposes other than those for which they had been intended. Upon the back of his departure came in the Precentor Renouf, who laid his baton conjointly and freely about the ears of his son and those of Laurence MacKim. "Get to your beds both of you, and that supperless, for uproar and conduct ill becoming two youths who worship God all day in his sanctuary, and are maintained at grievous expense by our most devout and worthy lord, Messire Gilles of Laval and Retz, Seigneur and Lord!" Laurence, who had of set purpose provoked the quarrel, was slinking away, when the "Psalta" (as the choir-master is called in lower Brittany) ordered them to sleep in separate rooms for the better keeping of the peace. "And do you, Master Laurence, perform your vigil of the night upon the pavement of the chapel. For you are the most rebellious and troublesome of all--indeed, past bearing. Go! Not a word, sirrah!" So, much rejoiced in heart that matters had thus fallen out, Laurence MacKim betook himself to the Chapel of the Holy Innocents, and was duly locked in by the irate precentor. For, upon various occasions, he had watched the Lord of Retz descend into the chapel by a private staircase which opened out in an angle behind the altar. He had also seen Poitou, his confidential body-servant, lock it after him with a small key of a yellow colour which he took from his fork pocket. Now Master Laurence, as may have already been observed, was (like most of the youthful unordained clergy) little troubled, at least in minor matters, with scruples about such slight distinctions as those which divide _meum_ and _tuum_. He found no difficulty therefore in abstracting this key when Poitou was engaged in attending his master from the chapel, in which service it was his duty to pass the stalls with open lattice ends of carven work in which sat the elder choir-boys. Having secured the key, Laurence hid it instantly beneath the leaden saint on his cap, refastening the long pin which kept our Lady of Luz in her place through the fretwork of the little brazen key. Presently he saw Poitou come back and look carefully here and there upon the floor, but after a while, not finding anything, he went out again to search elsewhere. The idea had come to Laurence that at the head of the stairway from the chapel was the prison chamber of Maud Lindesay and her ward, the little Maid Margaret of Galloway. He told himself at least that this was his main object, and doubtless he had the matter in his mind. But a far stronger motive was his curiosity and the magic influence of the mysterious and the unknown upon the heart of youth. More than to deliver Margaret of Galloway, Laurence longed to look again upon the iron altar and to know the truth concerning the strange sacrifices which were consummated there. And he yearned to see again that rough-eared image graven after the fashion of a man. And the reason was not far to seek. For if even the worship of the High God, according to the practice of the most enlightened nations, grounds itself upon blood and sacrifice, what wonder if, in the worship of the lords of Hell, the blood of the innocent is an oblation well pleasing and desirable. Rooted and ineradicable is the desire in man's heart to know good and evil--but particularly evil. And so now Laurence desired to see the sacrifice laid between the horns of the altar and the image above lean over as if to gloat upon the sweet savour of its burning. Long and carefully Laurence listened before he ventured forth. The Chapel of the Innocents was dark and silent. Only a reflection of the red light which burned in the keep struck through the clerestory upon the great cross which swung above the altar. This, being dispersed like a halo about the sign of Christ's redemption, rendered the corner where was placed the door into the secret stairway light enough to enable the youth to insert therein Poitou's key. The wards were turned with well-accustomed smoothness. Carefully shutting the door behind him so that if any one chanced to enter the chapel nothing would be observed, Laurence set his feet upon the steps and began his adventure of supreme peril. It was a narrow staircase, only wide enough indeed for one to ascend or descend at once. And the heart of Laurence sank within him at the thought of meeting the dread Lord of Machecoul face to face in its strait, black spirals. He accomplished the ascent, however, without incident, and, passing through another low arch, found himself at the end of the passage over against the door with the curious burned hieroglyphics imprinted upon it. There was no light in the corridor, and Laurence eagerly set his hand to the latch. It opened as before and admitted him at a touch. The temple-like hall was silent and dim. Only an occasional thrill as if of an earthquake passed across it, waving the heavy hangings and bringing a hot breath of some strange heady perfume to the nostrils. Laurence, with a beating heart, ensconced himself in a hidden nook behind the door. The niche was covered by a curtain and furnished with a grooved slab of marble placed there for some purpose he could not fathom. Yet it was by no means wholly dark. A light shone into the Chapel of Evil from the opposite side, and through it he could discern shadows cast upon the floors and striding gigantic across the roof, as unseen personages passed the light which streamed into the dusky temple. In the gloomiest part of the background, hinted rather than seen, he could make out the vast dark figure dominating the iron altar. Then Laurence remembered that the chamber of the marshal lay on the other side--the room with the immense fireplace which he had once entered and from which he had barely escaped with his life. Little by little Laurence raised himself upon the grooved slab until, standing erect, he could see some small part of the whitewashed, red-floored chamber he remembered so well--only a strip, however, extending from the door through which he looked to the great fireplace whereon the heaped wood had already been kindled. At first all was confused. Laurence saw Henriet and Poitou going hastily here and there, as servitors do who prepare for a great function. Then came a pause, heavy with doom. On the back of this he heard or seemed to hear the frightened pleading of a child, the short, sharp commands of a soldier's voice, a sound as of a blow stricken, and then again a whimpering hush. Laurence leaned against the wall with his face in his hands. He dared not look within. Then he lifted his head, and lo! in the gloom it seemed as if the huge image had turned towards him, and in a pleased, confidential way were nodding approval of his presence. He heard the voice of the Marshal de Retz again--this time kindly, and even affectionate. Some one was not to be frightened. Some one was to take a draught from the goblet and fear nothing. They would not hurt him. They had but played with him. Again Henriet and Poitou passed and repassed, and once Gilles de Sillé flashed across the interspace handing a broad-edged gleaming knife swiftly and surreptitiously to some one unseen. Then came a short, sharp cry of agony, a gurgling moan, and black, blank, unutterable horror shut down on Laurence's spirit. He sank down on his face behind the door and covered his eyes and ears with his hands. So he lay for a space without motion, almost without sense, upon the naked grooves of the marble slab. When he came to himself, a dusky light was diffused through the chapel. As he looked he saw La Meffraye come to the door and set her face within, like some bird of night, hideous and foul. Then she returned and Gilles de Sillé and Clerk Henriet came into the chapel bearing between them a great golden cup, filled (as it seemed by the care with which they carried it) to the very brim with some precious liquid. To them, all clad in a priest's robe of flame-coloured velvet, succeeded the Lord of Retz himself. He held in his hand like a service-book the great manuscript written in red, which he had been transcribing at Sybilla's entrance, and as he walked he chanted, with a strange intonation, words that thrilled the very soul of the young man listening. And yet, as Laurence looked forth from his hiding-place, it appeared that the black statue nodded once more to him as one who would say, "Take note and remember what thou seest; for one day thy testimony shall be needful." These were the words he heard in the chanting monotone: "O great and mighty Barran-Sathanas--my only lord and master, whom with all due observance I do worship, look mercifully upon this the sacrifice of innocent blood; let it be grateful to thee--to whom all evil is as the breath of life! "Hear us, O Barran-Sathanas! Thou hast been deaf in past days, because we served thee not without drawback or withholding, without sparing and without remorse. Because we hesitated to give thee the best, the delicatest, the most pitiful. But now take this innocentest innocence. Behold I, Gilles de Retz, make to thee the matchless sacrifice of the Red Milk thou lovest. "The Red Milk I pour for thee. The Red Milk I bring thee. The Red Milk I drink to thee--that thou mayest be pleased to restore vital energy and new youth to my veins, to make me strong as a young man in his strength, and wiser than the wisdom of age. Hear me, O great master of all the evil of the universe, thou equal and coadjutor of the Master of Good, hear and manifest thy so mighty power. Hear me and answer, O Barran-Sathanas!" Gilles de Retz took the cup from the hands of the servitors. He seemed so weak with his crying that he could hardly hold it between his trembling palms. He lifted his head and again cried aloud: "See, I am weak, my Satan--see how I tremble. Strength is departed from me. Youth is dead. Help thy faithful servant, aid him to lift up this precious oblation to thee!" And as the great dusky image seemed to lean over him, with a hoarse cry Gilles de Retz raised the cup and held it high above his head. As he did so a beam, sudden as lightning, fell upon it, and with a quick, instinctive horror, Laurence saw that it was filled to the brim with blood fresh and red. The marshal's voice strengthened. "It is coming! It is coming! Barran manifests himself! O great lord, to thee I drain this draught!" cried Gilles de Retz. "The Red Milk, the precious milk of innocence, to thee I drink it!" And he set the cup to his lips and drank deep and long. * * * * * "It comes. It fills me. I am strong. O Barran, give me yet more strength. My limbs revive. My pulse beats. I am young as when I rode with Dunois. Barran, thou art indeed mightier than God. I will give thee yet more and more. I swear it. I have kept the best wine till the last--the death vintage of a great house. The wine of beauty and brightness--I have kept it for thee. Halt not to make me stronger! Help me--Barran, help--I fail--!" His voice had risen higher and higher till it was well nigh a scream of agony. Strangely too, in spite of the fictitious youth that glowed in his veins and coloured his cheek, it sounded like a senile shriek. But all suddenly, at the very height of his exaltation, the cup from which he had drunk slipped from his hand and rolled upon the tesselated pavement of the temple, staining it in gouts and vivid blotches of crimson. "Hasten, ere I lose the power--I feel it checked. Poitou, De Sillé, Henriet, go bring hither from the White Tower the Scottish maids. Run, dogs--or you die! Quick, Henriet! Good De Sillé, quick! Fail not your master now! It ebbs, it weakens--and it was so near completion. Stay, O Barran, till I finish the sacrifice, and here at thy feet offer up to thee the richest, and the fairest, and the noblest! Bring hither the maidens! I tell you, bring them quickly!" And the terrible Lord of Retz, exhausted with his own fury, cast himself at the feet of the gigantic image, which, bending over him, seemed with the same grimace sardonically to mock alike his exaltation and his downfall. But Laurence heard no more. For sense and feeling had wholly departed from him, and he lay as one dead behind the door of the temple of Barran-Sathanas, Lord of Evil, in the thrice-abhorrent Castle of Machecoul.	{ "id": "17733" }
56	THE SHADOW BEHIND THE THRONE	Within the grim walls of Black Angers Duke John of Brittany and reigning sovereign of western France was holding his court. The city and fortress did not properly, of right and parchment holding, appertain to him. But he had occupied it during the recent troubles with the English, and his loving cousin and nominal suzerain Charles the Seventh of France had not yet been strong enough to make him render it up again. The Duke sat in the central tower of the fortress of Black Angers, that which looks between the high flanking turrets of the mighty enceinte of walls. He wriggled discontentedly in his chair and grumbled under his breath. At his shoulder, tall, gaunt, angular, with lantern jaws and a mouth like a wolf trap, deep-set eyes that flamed under bushy eyebrows, stood Pierre de l'Hopital, the true master of Brittany. "I tell you I will go to the tennis-courts--the three Scots must wait audience till to-morrow. What errand can they have with me--some rascals whom Charles will not pay now that his job is done? They come to take service doubtless. A beggarly lot are all such out-land varlets, but brave--yes, excellent soldiers are the Scots, so long as they are well fed, that is." "Nay, my Lord Duke," said Pierre de l'Hopital, standing up tall and sombre, his long black gown accentuating the peculiarities of his figure. "It were almost necessary to see these men now and hear what they have to say. I myself have seen them and judge it to be so." John of Brittany threw down the little sceptre, fashioned in imitation of that made for the King of France, with which he had been toying. The action was that of a pettish child. "Oh," he cried, "if you have decided, there remains nothing for me but to obey!" "I thank your Excellency for your gracious readiness to grant the men an interview," said Pierre de l'Hopital, having regard to the essential matter and disregarding the unessential manner. Duke John sat glooming and kicking his feet to and fro on the raised dais, while behind his chair, impassive as the Grand Inquisitor himself, Pierre de l'Hopital, President of Brittany, lifted a hand to an unseen servitor; and in a few moments the three Scots were ushered into the ducal presence. The Lord James in virtue of his quality stood a little in front, not by his own will or desire, but because Sholto and his father had so placed themselves that the young noble should have his own rightful precedence. For as to these things all Scots are careful by nature. Duke John continued to keep his eyes averted from the men who sought his presence. He teased a little lop-eared spaniel, and nipped it till it yelped. But the President of Brittany never took his eyes off the strangers, examining them with a bold, keen, remorseless glance, in which, however, there was neither evil nor the tolerance of it. Not a man to make himself greatly beloved, this Pierre de l'Hopital. And little he cared whether or no. In Brittany men did his will. That was enough. James Douglas was nettled at the inattention of the Duke. He was of that large and sanguine nature which is at once easily touched by any discourtesy and very quick to resent it. "My Lord of Brittany," he began in a loud clear voice, and in his usual immaculate French, "I claim your attention for a little. I come to lay before you that which touches your kin and kingdom." Duke John continued to play with the lap-dog, and in addition he formed his mouth to whistle. But he never whistled. "His Grace of Brittany will now give you his undivided attention," said the President from behind, without moving a muscle either of his body or of his face, save those necessary to propel the words from his vocal cords. The brow of Duke John flushed with anger, but he did not disobey. He raised his head and gazed straight at the three men, fixing his eyes, however, with a studied discourtesy upon Sholto instead of upon their natural leader and spokesman. Behind his chair Pierre de l'Hopital let his deep inscrutable eye droop once upon his master, and his spare and sinewy wrists twitched as he held his arms by his side. He seemed upon the point of dealing ducal dignity a box on the ear both sound and improving. "I am the Lord James of Douglas and Avondale," said the leader of the Scots with grave dignity, "and I had three years ago the honour of breaking a lance with you in the tilt-yard of Poitiers, when in that town your Grace met with the King of France and the Duke of Burgundy." At this John of Brittany looked up quickly. "I do not remember you," he said, "and I never forget faces. Even Pierre will grant me that." "Your Grace may possibly remember, then, the dint in your shoulder that you got from the point of a spear, caused by the breaking of the links of your shoulder-piece." A light kindled in the Duke's eyes. "What," he cried, "you are the young Scot who fought so well and kept his shield up day by day over the door of a common sergeant's tent, having no pavilion of his own, till it was all over dints like an alehouse tankard?" "As were also the knights who dinted it," grimly commented Pierre de l'Hopital. The Lord James of Avondale bowed. "I am that knight," he said quietly and with gravity. "But," cried the Duke, "I knew not then that you were of Douglas. That is a great name in Poitiers, and had we known your race and quality we had not been so ready with our shield-rapping." "At that time," said James Douglas, "I had not the right to add 'of Douglas' to my titles. But during this year my father hath succeeded to the Earldom and estates." "What--then is your father Duke of Touraine?" cried the Duke of Brittany, much astonished. "Nay, my lord," said James Douglas, with some little bitterness. "The King of France hath caused that to revert to himself by the success which attended a certain mission executed for him in Scotland by his Chamberlain, the Marshal de Retz, concerning whom we have come from far to speak with you." "Ah, my cousin Gilles!" cried Duke John. "He is not a beauty to look at, but he is a brave man, our Gilles. I heard he had gone to Scotland. I wonder if he contrived to make himself as popular in your land as he has done in ours." With a certain grave severity to which Pierre de l'Hopital nodded approval, the Lord James replied: "At the instigation of the King of France and Louis the Dauphin he succeeded in murdering my two cousins William and David of Douglas, and in carrying over hither with him to his own country their only sister, the little Countess of Galloway--thus rooting out the greatest house in Scotland to the hurt of the whole realm." "But to your profit, my Lord James of Avondale," commented the hollow voice of Pierre de l'Hopital, speaking over his master's head. The face of James Douglas flushed quickly. "No, messire," he answered with a swift heat. "Not to my profit--to my infinite loss. For I loved my cousin. I honoured him, and for his sake would have fought to the death. For his sake have I renounced my own father that begat me. And for his sake I stand here to ask for justice to the little maiden, the last of his race, to whom by right belongs the fairest province of his dominions. No, messire, you are wrong. In all this have I had no profit but only infinite hurt." Pierre de l'Hopital bowed low. There was a pleased look on his face that almost amounted to a smile. "I crave your pardon, my lord," he said; "that is well said indeed, and he is a gentleman who speaks it." "Aye, it is indeed well said, and he had you shrewdly on the hip that time, Pierre," cried Duke John. "I wish he could teach me thus cleverly to answer you when you croak." "If you had as good a cause, my lord," said the President of Brittany to the Duke, "it were not difficult to answer me as sharply. But we are keeping these gentlemen from declaring the purpose of their journey hither." The Lord James waited for no further invitation. "I come," he said boldly, holding a parchment in his hand, the same he had received from the Lady Sybilla, "to denounce Gilles de Retz and to accuse him of many cruel and unrighteous acts such as have never been done in any kingdom. I accuse him of the murder of over four hundred children of all ages and both sexes in circumstances of unparalleled barbarity. I am ready to lead you to the places where lie their bodies, some of them burned and their ashes cast into the ditch, others charred and thrown into unused towers. I have here names, instances, evidence enough to taint and condemn a hundred monsters such as Gilles de Retz." "Ah, give me the paper," came the raucous voice of the President of Brittany, as he reached a bony hand over his master's shoulder to seize it. The Lord James advanced, and giving it to him said, "Messire, I would have you know that a copy of this is already in the hands of a trusty person in each of the towns and villages which are named here, and from which children have been led to cruel death by him whom I have accused, Gilles de Retz, Marshal of France." The President of Brittany nodded as he almost snatched the paper in his eagerness to peruse it. "The point is cleverly taken," he said, "as justly indeed as if you knew my Lord of Brittany as well as, for instance, I know him." The Duke was obviously discomfited. He shuffled his feet more than ever on the dais and combed his straggling fair beard with soft, white, tapering fingers. "This is wild and wholly absurd," he said, without however looking at James Douglas; "our cousin Gilles is in ill odour with the commonalty. He is a philosopher and makes smells with bottles. But there is neither harm nor witchcraft in it. He is only trying to discover the elixir of life. So the silly folk think him a wizard. I know him better. He is a brave soldier and my good cousin. I will not have him molested." "My lord speaks of kinship," grated the voice of Pierre de l'Hopital. "Here are the names of four hundred fathers and mothers who have also a claim to be heard on that subject, and whose voices, if I judge right, are being heard at this moment around the Castles of Machecoul, Tiffauges, Champtocé, and Pouzages. I wot there is now a crowd of a thousand men pouring through the passages of the Hotel de Suze in your Grace's own ducal city of Nantes. And if there goes a bruit abroad, that your Highness is protecting this monster whom the people hate, and the evidences of whose horrid cruelty are by this time in their hands--well, your Grace knows the Bretons as well as I. They will make one end of Gilles de Retz and of his cousin John, Duke of Brittany." "Think you so--think you so truly, Pierre?" cried the unhappy reigning prince; "I would not screen him if this be true. But the King--what of the King? They say he hath promised him support with arms and men for recovering to him and to Louis the Dauphin the Duchy of Touraine." "And think you, my lord, that the Dauphin will keep his promise, if we show him good cause why he should fare better by breaking it?" suggested Pierre de l'Hopital, with the grim irony which had become habitual to him. John of Brittany paused irresolute. "Besides which," continued James Douglas, "I may add that this paper is already in the hands of the Cardinal Bishop of Nantes, and if your Grace will not move in the matter, his Eminence has promised to see justice done." "The hireling--the popular mouther after favour! I know him," cried Duke John, angrily. "What accursed demon sent you to him? In this, as in other matters, he will strive to oust me from the hearts of the folk of Brittany. He will be the people's advocate and will gain great honour from this trial, will he? We shall see. Ho! guards there! Turn out. Summon those that are asleep. Let the full muster be called. I will lead you to Machecoul myself. And these gentlemen shall march with us. But by Heaven and the bones of Saint Anne of Auray, if in one jot they shall fail to substantiate against Gilles de Retz those things which they have testified, they shall die by the rack, and by the cord, and by disembowelling, and by fire. So swear I, Duke John of Brittany." "It is good," said James Douglas. And "It is good," accorded also Malise and Sholto MacKim. "But before any dies in Brittany, Gilles de Retz or another, _I_ will judge the case," commented Pierre de l'Hopital, President of Justice and Grand Councillor of the reigning sovereign.	{ "id": "17733" }
57	THE TOWER OF DEATH	Throughout La Vendée and all the country of Retz had run a terrible rumour. "The Marshal de Retz is the murderer of our children. He has a thousand bodies in the vaults of his castles. The Duke of Brittany has given orders that they shall be searched. His soldiers are forsaking him. The names of the dead have been written in black and white, and are in the hands of the headmen of the villages. Hasten--it is the hour of vengeance! Let us overwhelm him! Rise up and let us seek our lost ones, even if we find no more than their bones!" And terrible as had been the gathering of the were-wolves in the dark forests around Machecoul upon the night of the fight by the hollow tree, far more threatening and terrible was the uprising of the angry commons. In whole villages there was not a man left, and mothers too marched in that muster armed with choppers and kitchen knives, wild eyed and angry hearted as lionesses robbed of their cubs. From the deep glens and deeper woods of the country of Retz they poured. They disgorged from the caves of the earth whither the greed and rapacity of their terrible lord had driven them. Schoolmasters were there with the elder of their pupils. For many of the vanished children had disappeared on their way to school, and these men were in danger of losing both their credit and occupation. Towards Tiffauges, Champtocé, Machecoul, the angry populace, long repressed, surged tumultuously, and with them, much wondering at their orders, went the soldiers of the Duke. But it is with the columns that concentrated upon Machecoul that we have chiefly to do. Our three Scots accompanied these, and here, too, marched John of Brittany himself with his Councillor Pierre de l'Hopital by his side. Night fell as they journeyed on, ever joined by fresh contingents from all the country round. In the van pressed forward the folk of Saint Philbert, warm from the utter destruction of the house of the witch woman, La Meffraye, so that not one stone was left upon another. Guided by these the Duke and his party made their way easily through the forest, even in the darkness of the night. And as they passed hamlet or cottage ever and anon some frenzied mother would rush upon them and fall on her knees before the Duke, praying him to look well for her darling, and bringing mayhap some pitiful shred of clothing or lock of hair by which the searchers might identify the lost innocent. As they went forward the soldiers pricked on ahead, and caused the people to fall to the rear, lest any foreknowledge of their purpose might reach the wizard and warn him to escape. The woods of Machecoul were dark and silent that night. Not the howl of a questing wolf was heard. Truly the marshal's demons had forsaken him, or mayhap they were all busy at that last carnival in the keep of the Castle of Machecoul. As the storming party approached nearer, and while yet they were several miles distant, they became aware of a great red light that gleamed forth above them. They could not see whence it came, but the peasants of Saint Philbert with affrighted glances told how it beaconed only after the disappearance of some little one from their homes, what strange cries were heard ringing out from that lofty tower, and how for days after the smoke of a great burning would hang about the gloomy turrets of devil-haunted Machecoul. Fiercer and ever fiercer shone the red glare, and the faces of the soldiers were lit up so that Pierre de l'Hopital ordered them to keep to the more gloomy arcades of the forest. Then by midnight the cordon was drawn so closely that none might pass in or out. And behind the soldiery the common folk lay crouched, anger in their hearts, and their eyes turned towards the open windows in the keep of Machecoul, from which flared the red light of bale. Then, covering their lanterns, the three Scots, with Duke John, Pierre de l'Hopital, and a score of officers, stole silently towards the tower by which the Lady Sybilla had promised that an entrance should be gained to the Castle of Machecoul. It was situated at the western corner towards the south, and was joined to its fellows at the corresponding angles of the fortress by galleried walls of great height. Ten feet above the ground was a little door of embossed iron, but ordinarily no steps led to it when the castle was in a state of defence. Yet when Sholto adventured into the angle of the wall, he stumbled upon a ladder that leaned against the little landing-ledge, above which was the entrance denoted on the plan. Sholto ascended first, being the lightest and most agile of all. As he had expected, he found the door unlocked and a narrow passage leading within the tower. He lay a moment and listened, and then, being certain there was a light and the sounds of labour within, he crawled back to the ladder head, and whispered to the Lord James an order for total silence. Whereupon, Sholto holding the ladder at the top, Duke John and his Councillor mounted like shadows, and with Malise and James Douglas to guard them they were presently crouched in the passage with the door shut behind them, and the officers keeping watch at the foot of the tower without. These five listened to the sounds of busy picks within the tower. They could hear the ring of iron on stones and the panting of men engaged in severe toil. "The marshal is preparing for flight," whispered the Duke, exultantly. "He is interring his treasures. He has been warned. But we will be overspeedy for him." And he chuckled in his satisfaction so loudly that Malise, using no ceremony with Duke or varlet at such a season, put his hand over his mouth. Then one by one they crawled along the narrow passage on their hands and knees, and presently from a little balcony, plastered like a swallow's nest on the inner wall of the tower, they found themselves looking down upon a strange scene. A flight of steps led slantwise to the bottom, and at the foot of the tower, stripped to the waist, they beheld two men busily filling great sacks with a curious cargo. The turret had never been finished. It contained nothing whatever except the staircase. So far as Sholto could see there was not even a window anywhere. The door by which they had entered and another which evidently led into the interior of the castle were its only outlets. The earth at the bottom had remained as it had been left by the builders, who surely must have thought that no madder architectural freak was ever planned than this shut tower of the Castle of Machecoul with its blank walls and sordid accoutrement. But most strange of all, the original earth had been covered to the depth of a foot or more with dark objects, the true significance of which did not appear from the distance of the little gallery where the party of five had stationed themselves. The two men at work below had brought torches with them, which were fastened to the walls by iron spikes. The smoke from these hung in heavy masses about the tower, still further diminishing the clearness with which the watchers aloft could observe what went on below. One of the workmen was tall and spare, with the forward thrust of head and neck seen in vultures and other unclean birds. The other, who held the sacks while his companion shovelled, was on the contrary stout and short, of a notably jovial, rubicund countenance, in habit like the hostler of an inn, or perhaps a well-to-do carrier upon the roads. The two worked without speaking, as if the task were distasteful. When one sack was full, both would seize their picks and dig furiously at the floor of the tower. Then when they had enough loosened, they would fall to shovelling the curiously shaped objects into the sacks again. As Sholto looked down he heard a hissing whisper at his ear. "These be Blanchet the sorcerer and Robin Romulart. But last week they took notice of my little Jean and praised him for a noble boy." Sholto turned round, and there at his elbow, having followed them in spite of all orders and precautions, he discerned the woodman Louis Verger, whose little son had been carried off by the grey she-wolf. Sholto motioned him back, and at a sign from the Duke, his father and he began to descend. So silently did they make their way down the stone steps, and so intent were the men upon their work, that in a minute after leaving the little gallery Malise stood behind the taller and Sholto stole like a shadow along the wall nearer to the little rotund man who had been called Robin Romulart. The Duke held up his hand. Sholto and Malise each took their man about the throat with their left arms and pulled them backward, at the same time covering their mouths with their right hands. Blanchet never moved in the strong arms of Malise. But Robin, whose rotund figure concealed his great muscular development, might have escaped from Sholto had not the woodman Verger flung himself at the little man's throat and brought him to the ground. Then the Duke and the others descended, and as they did so they became conscious of a choking mephitic vapour which clung dank and heavy to the lower courses of the tower. Suddenly a wild cry made all shiver. It came from Louis Verger, who had sprung upon something that lay tossed aside in a corner. "Silence, man--on your life! Silence!" hissed Pierre de l'Hopital. "Whatever you have found, think only of revenge and help us to it!" "I have found him. He is dead! The fiends! The fiends!" sobbed Louis Verger, covering a small partially charred object with the curtmantle of which he had rapidly divested himself for the purpose. Then it came upon those who stood on the floor of the tower that they were in the marshal's main charnel-house. These vague forms, mostly charred like half-burned wood, these scraps of white bone, these little crushed skulls, were all that remained of the innocent children who, in the freshness of their youth and beauty, had been seduced into the fatal Castle of Machecoul. And what wonder that an appalling terror sat on the heart and mastered the soul of Sholto MacKim. For how did he know that he was not treading under foot at each step the calcined fragments of the fair body of Maud Lindesay? Twenty sacks had been filled ready for transport, and as many more lay folded and empty in a heap in a corner. The marshal, uneasy perhaps as to the suspicions against him, and anxious to remove evidence from the precincts of his castle, had ordered this Tower of Death to be cleared. But truly his devil had once more forsaken him. The order had been given a day too late. "God's grace, I stifle. Let us get out of this, and seize the murderer," quoth Duke John, making his way towards the door. "Wait a moment," said Pierre de l'Hopital, "we must consider. We cannot let the commons see this or they will sack the castle from foundation to roof tree, and slay the innocent with the guilty. We must seize and hold for fair trial all who are found within. _And I, Pierre de l'Hopital, will try them! _" "What then do you propose?" said the Duke, getting as near the door as possible. "Let us bring in hither the officers and what soldiers you can trust--that is not my business," answered the President. "Then we will go through the castle, and after we have secured the prisoners and made sure of sufficient pieces of justificative evidence, of which we have infinite supply in these sacks, we may e'en permit the people to work their will." As it was Sholto who had first entered, so it was Sholto who first left the Tower of Death. He it was also who, at the head of a strong band, surprised the marshal's sleepy inner guard, and helped to bind them with his own hands. It was Sholto who, at the foot of the stairs of the great keep, stood listening that he might know the right moment to lead the besiegers upward. But even as he stood thus, down the stairway there came pealing a terrible cry, the shriek of a woman in the final agony, shrill, desperate, unavailing. And at the sound Sholto flew up the stone steps in the direction of the cry, not knowing what he did, save that he went to kill. And scarce a foot behind him followed the woodman, Louis Verger, and as they fled upward the red gloom grew brighter till they seemed to be rushing headlong into a furnace mouth.	{ "id": "17733" }
58	THE WHITE TOWER OF MACHECOUL	So at the command of the Marshal de Retz they sent to bring forth Margaret of Douglas and Maud Lindesay out of the White Tower, where they had been abiding. Margaret had gone to bed, and, as was her custom, Maud Lindesay sat awhile by her side. For so far as they could they kept to the good and kindly traditions of Castle Thrieve. It seemed somehow to bring them nearer home in that horrible place where they were doomed to abide. "Give me your hand, Maud, and tell on," said little Margaret, nestling closer to her friend, and laying her head against her arm as she leaned on the low bedstead beside her. Margaret was gowned in a white linen night-rail, made long ago for the marshal's daughter, little Marie de Retz, in the brighter days before the setting up of the iron altar. Catherine, his deserted wife, had been kind to the girls at Pouzages, and had given to both of them such articles of garmenture as they were sorely in need of. "Tell on--haste you," commanded little Margaret, with the imperiousness of loving childhood, nestling yet closer as she spoke. "It helps me to forget. I can almost think when you are speaking that we are again at Thrieve, and that if we looked out at the window we should see the Dee running by and Screet and Ben Gairn--and hear Sholto MacKim drilling his men out in the courtyard. Why, Maudie, what is the matter? I did not mean to make you cry. But it is all so sweet to think upon in this place. Oh, Maudie, Maudie, what would you give to hear a whaup whistle?" Then drawing herself into a sitting posture, with her hands about Maud's neck, she took a kerchief from under the pillow and dried her friend's tears, murmuring the while, "Ah, do not cry, Maud, my vision will yet come true, and you shall indeed see Ben Gairn and Thrieve--and everything. I was dreaming about it last night. Shall I tell you about it, sweet Maud?" Maud Lindesay did not reply, not having recovered power over her voice. So the little Maid of Galloway went on unbidden. "Yes, I dreamed a glad dream yester-even. Shall I tell it you all and all? I will--though you can tell stories far better than I. "Methought that I and you--I mean, dear Maud, you and I, were sitting together in the gloaming at the door of a little house up on the edges of the moorland, where the heather is prettiest, and reddest, and longest. And we were happy. We were waiting for some one. I shall not tell you who, Maudie, but if you are good, and stop crying, you can guess. And there was a ring on your finger, Maud. No, not like the old ones--not a pretty ring like those in your box, yet you loved it more than them all, and never stopped turning it about between your finger and thumb. "They had let me come up to stay with you, and the men who had accompanied me were drinking in the clachan. As we sat I seemed to hear their loud chorus, sounding up from the change-house. "And you listened and said: 'I wish he would come. He is very long. It is always long when he is away.' But you never said who it was that was long away. And I shall not tell you, though I know. Perhaps it was old Jock Lacklands, who used to be captain of the guard, and perhaps grouting Peter, from the gate-house by the ford. But somehow I do not think so. Ah, that is better! Now do not cry again. But listen, else I will not tell you any more, but go off to sleep instead. "Perhaps you do not want to hear the rest. Yet--it was such a pretty dream, and of good omen. "You _do_ want to hear? Well, then, be good! "As we sat there we could hear the bumblebees scurrying home, and every now and then one of the big boom-beetles would sail whirring past us. We could hear the sheep crying below in the little green meadows so lonesomely, and the snipe bleating an answer away up in the sky above their heads, and you said, '_It is all so empty, wanting him! _' "Then the maids brought in the cows, and milked them standing at the gable end, and we could smell the smell of their breath, sweet like the scent of the flowers they had been eating all day long. Then, after a while, they were driven out of the yard again, and went in a string, one after the other, back to their pastures, doucely and sedately, just like folk going to holy kirk on Sabbath days when it is summer time in Galloway. "Then you said, 'I am weary of waiting for him!' And I answered, 'Why,--he has not been gone more than a day. Sometimes I do not see him for weeks, and _I_ never fret like that!' "Then you answered (it has all come so clear into my mind), 'Some day you will know, little one!' And you patted me on the head, and went to the house end to look into the sunset. You looked many minutes under your hand, and when you came back you said, as if you had never said it before, 'He is long a-coming! I wonder what can be keeping him.' "Then the maidens told us that the supper was ready to put on the table, whereat you scolded them, telling them that it was too early, and that they must keep it hot against their master's coming. And to me you said, 'You are not hungry, are you?' And I answered, 'No,' though I was indeed very hungry--(in my dream, that is). Then you said again, sighing: 'It is strange that he should not come home! I cannot eat till he comes! Perhaps he has fallen into a ditch, or some eagle may have pecked out his eyes!' "Then all the while it grew darker, and still no one came. Whereat you cried a little softly, and said: 'He might have come--I know right well he could have been here by this time if he had tried. But he does not love me any more.' And you were patting the ground with your foot as you used to do when--well, when he went away from Thrieve without coming out upon the leads to say 'Good-night.' Then, all at once, there was a noise of quick feet brushing eagerly through the heather, and some one (no, not Landless Jock) leaped the wall and caught me--_me_--in his arms." "No, it was not you whom he caught in his arms!" cried Maud Lindesay, indignantly, and then stopped, abashed at her own folly. But the little maid laughed merrily. "Aha!" she said, "_I_ caught you that time in my trap. You know who it was in my dream, though I have never told you, nor so much as hinted. "And he asked if you had missed him, and you made a sign for me not to speak, just as you used to do at Castle Thrieve, and answered, 'No, not a little bit! Margaret and I were quite happy. We hoped you would not come back at all this night, for then we could have slept together.'" Maud Lindesay drew a long, soft breath, and looked out of the window of the White Tower into the dark. "That is a sweet dream," she murmured. "Ah, would that it were true, and that Sholto--!" She broke off short again, for the maid clapped her hands gleefully. "You said it! You said it!" she cried. "You called him Sholto. Now I know; and I am so glad, for he is nearly as good to play with as you. And I shall not mind him a bit." Little Margaret stopped short in her turn, seeing something in her friend's face. "Why are you suddenly grown so sad, Maudie?" she asked. "It came upon me, dear Margaret," said Maud, "how that we are but two helpless maids in a dreadful place without a friend. Let us say a prayer to God to keep us!" Then Margaret Douglas turned and knelt with her face to the pillow and her small hands clasped in front of her. "Give me your silver cross," she said, "I lent the little gold one that was William's to the Lady Sybilla, and she hath not returned it me again." Maud gave her the cross and she took it and held it in the palm of her hand looking long at it. Then she repeated one by one the children's orisons she had been taught, and after that she made a little prayer of her own. This is the prayer. "Lord of mercy, be good to two maids who are lonely and weak, and shut up in this place of evil men. Keep our lives and our souls, and also our bodies from harm. Make us not afraid of the dark or of the devil. For Thou art the stronger. And do not forget to be near us this night, for we have no other friend and sorely do we need one to love and deliver us. Amen." It was true. More bitterly than any two in the whole world, these maidens needed a friend at that moment. For scarcely had the childish accents been lost in the night silence, when the outer door of the White Tower was thrown open to the wall, and on the steps of the turret stair they heard the noise of men coming upwards to their prison-room. But first, though the inner door of their chamber was locked within, the bolts glided back apparently of their own accord. It opened, and the hideous face of La Meffraye looked in upon them with a cackle of fiendish laughter. "Come, sweet maidens," she cried gleefully, as the frightened girls clasped each other closer upon the bed, "come away. The Marshal de Retz calls for you. He hath need of your beauty to grace his feast. The lights of the banquet burn in his hall. See the fire of burning shine out upon the night. The very trees are red with it. The skies are red. All is red. Come--up--make yourselves fair for the eyes of the great lord to behold!" Then behind La Meffraye entered Gilles de Sillé and Poitou, the marshal's servants. "Make ready in haste--you are both to go instantly before my lord, who abides your coming!" said Gilles de Sillé. "Poitou and I will abide without the door, and La Meffraye here shall be your tirewoman and see that you have that which you need. But hasten, for my lord is instant and cannot be kept waiting!" * * * * * So they brought the Scottish maidens down from the White Tower into the night. They walked hand in hand. Their steps did not falter, and, as they went, they prayed to God to keep them from the dangers of the place. Astarte, the she-wolf, who must have kept guard beneath, stalked before them, and behind them they seemed to hear the hobbling crutch and cackling laughter of La Meffraye. Across the wide courtyard of Machecoul they went. It also was filled with the reflection of the red tide of light which ebbed and flowed, waxing and waning above. Saving for that window the whole castle was wrapped in gloom and silence, and if there were any awake within the precincts they knew better than to spy upon the midnight doings of their dread lord. The little party passed up the great staircase of the keep and presently halted before the inscribed wooden door by which Laurence had entered the Temple of Evil. As Gilles de Sillé opened it for the maids to precede him, the skirt of Maud Lindesay's robe, blown back by the draught of the chamber, fluttered against the cheek of Laurence MacKim as he lay on his face in the niche of the wall. At the light touch he came to himself, and looked about with a strange and instant change in all the affections and movements of his heart. With the coming in of the maidens, fear seemed utterly to forsake him. A clarity of purpose, an alertness of brain, a strength of heart unknown before, took the place of the trembling bath of horror in which he had swooned away. It was like the sudden appearance of two white angels walking fearless and unscathed through the grim dominions of the Lords of Hell. Incarnate Good had somehow entered the house of the Demon, though it was in the slender periphery of two maidens' bodies, and evil, strong and resistless before, seemed in the moment to lose half its power. [Illustration: IT WAS LIKE THE SUDDEN APPEARANCE OF TWO WHITE ANGELS WALKING FEARLESS AND UNSCATHED THROUGH THE GRIM DOMINIONS OF THE LORDS OF HELL.]	{ "id": "17733" }
59	THE LAST SACRIFICE TO BARRAN-SATHANAS	And as Laurence MacKim, crouched in the dim obscurity of the curtained doorway, looked forth, this is what he saw. Maud Lindesay and Margaret Douglas advanced into the centre of the temple where was a slab of white marble let into the floor. As if by instinct the two maids stopped upon it, standing hand in hand before the iron altar and the vast shadowy image which gloomed above and appeared to reach forward in act to clutch them. After the first check in his hideous incantations, Gilles de Retz had returned to his own chamber, in which, after his entrance, the light gleamed brighter and more fiercely red than ever. As the maidens stood on the marble square La Meffraye went to the door and called certain words within, conveying some message which Laurence could not hear. Then with an assured carriage and haughty stride came forth the marshal, his grey hair and blue-black beard in strong contrast with his haggard corpse-pale face, from which the momentary glow of youth half-restored had already faded, as fades a footprint upon wet sand. Gilles de Sillé and Poitou bowed silently before him as men who have done their commission, and who retire to await further orders. But La Meffraye, once more apparent, stood her ground. "Here are the dainty maids from the far land; no beggars' brats are they. No strays and pickings from the streets. No, nor yet silly village innocents who follow La Meffraye from the play-fields through the woodlands to the Paradise of our Lord Gilles! Hasten not the joy! Let these pearls of youth and beauteousness die indeed, but let them die slowly and deliciously. And in the last blood of an ancient race let our master bathe and find the new life he seeks. Hear us, O Barran-Sathanas, and grant our prayer!" Then La Meffraye approached the maids and would have touched the dress of the little Margaret, as if to order it more daintily for the pleasing of her master's eye. But Maud Lindesay thrust her aside like an unclean thing. Whereat La Meffraye laughed till her rusty black cloak quivered and rustled from hood to hem. "Ah, my proud lady," she croaked, "in a little, in a very little, you too will be calling upon La Meffraye to save you, to pity you. But I, La Meffraye, will gloat over each drop of blood that distils from your fair neck. Aha, you shall change your tone when at the white throat-apple which your sweetheart would have loved to kiss, you feel the bite of the sharp slow knife. Then you will not thrust aside La Meffraye. Then you shall cry and none shall pity. Then she will spurn you from her knees." "Out!" said Gilles de Retz, briefly, and like some inferior imping devilkin before the great Master of Evil, La Meffraye retreated hobbling to the doorway of the marshal's chamber, where she crouched nodding and chuckling, mumbling inaudible words, and mingling them ever with her dry cackling laughter. Gilles de Retz stopped at the corner of the platform and looked long at Maud and Margaret where they stood on the great central square of marble. It was the Maid who spoke first. "Dear Messire," she said sweetly and almost confidently, "you have a little girl of your own. I know, for I have played with her. I love her. Therefore you will not hurt us. I am sure you will not hurt us. You are going to send us back in a ship to our own country, because it is lonely here where Maud and I know no one!" The marshal smiled upon her his inhuman inscrutable smile. He leaned against a pillar of strangely twisted design, and contemplated the two victims at his ease. "Life is sweet to you, is it not?" he said at last; "you are truly happy, being young, and so have no need to be made young again." "Oh, but I am very old," cried the Maid, gaining some confidence from the quiet of his voice, "I am nearly eight years old. And our Maudie here, she is--oh, a dreadful age! She is very, very old!" "You would not like to die?" suggested Gilles de Retz, with a certain soft insinuation. "Oh, no," said Margaret Douglas, "I am going to live long and long--till every one in the world loves me. I am going to help every one to get what he most desires. And you know I can, for I shall be very rich. And if what they say is true, and I am Princess of Galloway, I shall marry and be a very great lady. But I shall never marry any one who is not a Douglas." The marshal nodded. "I do not think that you shall marry any one who is not a Douglas!" he said, with a certain grave and not discourteous irony in his tones. "Yes," the little Maid went on. She had lost all fear in the very act of speech. "Yes, and Maud, she is going to marry Sholto--and they will be very happy, for they love each other so. I know it, for she told me to-night just before you sent for us to come to your feast. That was kind of you to remember us, though it was past bed-time. But now, good marshal, you will send us back, will you not? Now, look kind to-night. You will be glad afterwards that you were good to two maids who never harmed you, but are ready to love you if you prove kind to them." "Hush, Margaret," said Maud Lindesay. "It is useless to speak such words to such a man." The Marshal de Retz turned sharply to her. "Ah," he said, with a curious bite in his speech, "then, my young lady, you would not love me, even if I were to let you go!" "I should hate and abominate you for ever and ever, even if you helped me into Paradise!" quoth Maud Lindesay, giving him defiance in a full eye-volley. "So," he said calmly, "I am indeed likely to help you into Paradise this very night. That is, unless Saint Peter of the Keys makes up his mind that so outspoken and tricksome a maid had best take a few thousand years of purgatory--as it were on her way upwards, _en passant_." A sudden lowering passion at this point altered his countenance. "No," he thundered, standing up erect from the pillar against which he had been leaning, and his whole voice and bearing changing past description, "it is enough--listen! I will be brief with you. I have brought both of you here that you may die. I cannot expect of you that you will understand or appreciate my motives, which are indeed above the knowledge of children. This is a temple to a Great God, and he demands the sacrifice of the noblest and most innocent blood. I do you the honour to believe that it is here to my hand. Also, your deaths will cause a number of people both in Scotland and elsewhere to sit easier in their seats. Lastly, I had sworn that you should die if your friends from Scotland came to trouble me. They have come, and Gilles de Retz keeps his word--as doth the Master whom he serveth!" He bowed in the direction of the vast shadowy figure, which to Laurence's eye appeared to turn towards his niche with a leer, as if to say, "Listen to him. What a fool he is!" The maids stood silent, not comprehending aught save that they were to die. Then suddenly Gilles de Retz cried out in his loudest military tones--"Henriet, Poitou, De Sillé, bind these maidens upon the iron altar, that Barran-Sathanas may feed his eyes on their beauty and rejoice!" And as they stood motionless upon the square of white marble, the servitors came forward and led them to the great altar of iron. They lifted the maidens up and laid their bodies crosswise upon the vast grid, the bars of which were as thick as a man's arm, arranging them so that their heads hung without support over the bar next the shadowy image. As they bound them rudely hand and foot, the long and beautiful hair of Maud Lindesay escaped from its fastenings and fell down till it reached the bath of red porphyry which extended underneath the whole length of the altar of iron. Then through all the Temple of Evil there ensued sudden silence. Not a sob or a moan escaped from the doomed maidens, and the feet of the assistants fell silent and soft as the paws of wild beasts upon the ebon floor. Gilles de Retz waited till his acolytes had retired to their appointed places, where they stood like carven statues watching what should happen. Then slowly and deliberately he ascended to the broad platform from which the iron altar rose, and stood with his arms folded over his flame-coloured robe, looking gloatingly down, upon his innocent victims. Maud Lindesay was the nearer to him, and her unbound hair fell back and touched the peak of his pointed shoe of crimson Cordovan leather. With a quick movement he caught up a handful of its rich luxuriance and allowed it to run through his fingers like sand again and yet again, with apparent delight in the sensation. Even as he did so the dim figure of the horned demon above appeared to lean forward as if to touch him, and with a rushing noise the great hour-glass set upon a pedestal at the foot of the image turned itself completely over. Gilles with a startled air turned also, and seeing what it was he laughed a strange hollow laugh. "It is indeed the hour, the hour of doom, fair maids," he said, looking down upon them as deferentially as if he had been paying his court in the great hall of Thrieve, "but it shall not pass without taking with it your souls to another, and I trust a higher, sphere!" He paused, but no complaint or appeal reached his cruel and inexorable ear. The certain graciousness of Providence to those in extreme peril seemed to have blunted the edge of fear in the innocent victims. They lay still and apparently without consciousness upon the iron altar. The red glow played upon their faces, shining through from the inner chamber, and the figure of the marshal stood out black against it. On the floor lay the goblet from which he had drunk the Red Milk. "Give me the knife!" he cried, sudden as a trumpet that is blown. And reaching a withered hand within the marshal's chamber as if to detach something from the wall, La Meffraye hobbled quickly across the altar platform, bearing in her hand a shining weapon of steel, broad of blade and curved at the point. She placed the ebony handle in the marshal's hand, who weighed it lovingly in his grasp. Then for the first time since the men had bound her, the sweet childish eyes of little Margaret were unclosed and looked up at Gilles de Retz with the touching wonder of helplessness and innocence. At that moment the image appeared to Laurence to beckon to him out of the gloom. A quick and nervous resolve ran through his veins. His muscles became like steel within his flesh. He rose to his feet, and, without pause for thought, rushed across the chapel from the niche where he had been hidden. "Murderer! Fiend! I will kill you!" he cried, and with his dagger bare in his hand he would have thrown himself upon the marshal. But swifter than the rush of the young man in his strength there came another from the door of the inner chamber. With a deep-throated roar of wholly bestial fury, Astarte the she-wolf sprang upon Laurence, and, though he sank his dagger twice to the hilt in her hairy chest, she over-bore him and they fell to the ground with her teeth gripping his shoulder. Laurence felt the hot life-blood of the beast spurt forth and mingle with his own. Then a flood of swirling waters seemed to bear him suddenly away into the unknown. * * * * * When Laurence MacKim came to himself he emerged into a chill world in which he felt somehow infinitely lonely and forsaken. Next he grew slowly conscious that his feet and arms were bound tightly with cords that cut painfully into the flesh. Then he realised that he, too, had taken his place beside the maids upon the altar of iron. Strangely enough he did not feel afraid nor even wish himself elsewhere. He only wondered what would happen next. He opened his eyes and lo! they looked directly into the leering countenance of the monstrous image. Yet there seemed something curiously encouraging and even beneficent about the aspect of the demon. But so often as Gilles de Retz passed the triple array of his victims with his back to the image, the regard of the sculptured devil followed him, grim and mocking. Words of angry altercation came to the ears of Laurence MacKim. "I tell you," cried the voice of Gilles de Retz, "I will not spare them. Well nigh had I succeeded. Almost I was young again. I was tasting the first sweetness of knowledge wide as that of the gods. I felt the new life stirring within me. But I had not enough of the blood of innocence, which is the only worthy libation to Barran-Sathanas, who alone can bestow youth and life." Then the Lady Sybilla answered him. "I pray you, Gilles de Retz, as you hope for mercy, slay not these maidens and this youth. Take me, and bind me, instead, for the sacrifice of death. I have wrought enough of evil! Take of my blood and work out your purpose. Let me give you the libation you desire. Gilles de Retz, if ever I have aided you, grant me this boon now. I beseech you, let these innocents go, and bind me upon the altar in their places." Long and loud laughed Gilles de Retz, a hard, evil, and relentless laugh. "Sybilla de Thouars an innocent maiden's sacrifice! Barran-Sathanas himself laughs at the jest. He would have no pleasure in your death. Soul and body you are his already. He desires only the blood and suffering of the innocent--of those on whom he has never set his mark. Nay, these three shall surely die, and in that bath of porphyry hollowed out under his altar I will lave me from head to foot in the Red Milk of innocence. I have no more need of you, Sybilla mine. You have done your work, and for your reward you can now depart to your own place. Out of my way, I say. Henriet, Poitou, quick! Remove this woman from before the altar!" Then, struggling strongly in their hands, the servitors carried the Lady Sybilla to the farther end of the chapel, where they abode on either side, holding her fast. And as the last grains of sand began to swirl towards their fall and a little whirlpool to form funnel-wise in the midst of the hour-glass, the butcher was left alone with his victims upon the platform of the iron altar. Gilles de Retz turned towards the image, and, lifting up his hand solemnly, he cried in a great voice, "O Barran-Sathanas, be pleased to behold this innocent blood spilled slowly in thine honour. As the red fount flows and the red fire burns, restore my youth and make me strong. Faithfully will I serve thee and thee alone, renouncing all other. O Barran-Sathanas, great and only Lord, receive my sacrifice. It is the hour!" And so saying he laid hold of Maud Lindesay by the hair, and raised the curved knife on high. Then from the end of the chapel to which the Lady Sybilla had been taken there came a sound. With a great despairing effort she burst from her captors' hands and ran forward. She knelt down on the marble slab whereon the maids had stood at their first entering, and as she knelt she held aloft a golden crucifix. "If there be a God in heaven, let him manifest himself now!" she cried, "by the virtue of this cross of His son Jesus Christ, I call upon Him!" Then suddenly all the place was filled with a mighty rushing noise. The last grains ran low in the hour-glass. It shifted in its stand and turned over. A tremor like that of an earthquake shook all the castle to its foundations. The solid keep itself rocked like a vessel in a stormy sea. The great image overturned, and by its fall Gilles de Retz was stricken senseless to the earth. The next moment, like flood-gates burst by a mighty tide, the doors of the temple were opened with a clang, and through them a crowd of armed men came rushing in with triumphant shouts and angry cries of vengeance. Sholto was far ahead of the others, and, as if led by the unerring instinct of love, he ran to the altar whereon his love lay white as death, but without a mark upon her fair body. It was the work of a moment to cut their cords and chafe the numbed wrists and ankles. James Douglas took the little Margaret. Sholto had his sweetheart in his arms, while Laurence recovered quickly enough to aid his father in securing Gilles de Retz and his servants. La Meffraye they took not, for she lay dead within the inner chamber, where yet burned the great fire which was used to consume the bodies of the demon's victims. Two gaping wounds were found in her breast, in the same place in which the dagger of Laurence MacKim had smitten the she-wolf as she sprang upon him. But Astarte, woman witch or were-wolf, was never seen again, neither by starlight, moonlight, nor yet in the eye of day. Truly of Gilles de Retz was it said, "His demon hath deserted him." Beneath in the courts and quadrangles, swarming through the towers and clambering perilously on the roofs, surged the press of the furious populace. It was all that Duke John and his officers could do to keep the prisoners in ward, and to prevent them from being torn limb from limb (as had perhaps been fittest), and tossed alive into the flaming funeral pyre of Castle Machecoul, which, lighted by a hundred hands, presently began to flame like a volcano to the skies. For the hour that comes to every evil-doer had come to Gilles de Retz. And in that hour, as it shall ever be, the devil in whom he trusted had forsaken him. But the Lady Sybilla stood on the garden tower that in happier days had been her pleasaunce, and beheld. And as she watched she kissed the golden crucifix of the child Margaret. And her heart rejoiced because the lives of the innocent as well as the death of the guilty had been given her for her portion. "And now, O Lord, I am ready to pay the price!" she said.	{ "id": "17733" }
60	HIS DEMON HATH DESERTED HIM	The soldiers of the Duke of Brittany stood with bared swords and deadly pikes around the Marshal de Retz and those of his servants who had been taken--that is to say, round Poitou, Clerk Henriet, Blanquet, and Robin Romulart. About them surged ever more fiercely the angry populace, drunk with the hot wine of destruction, having been filled with inconceivable fury by that which they had seen in the round tower wherein stood the filled bags of little charred remains. "Tear the wolves into gobbets! Kill them! Burn them! Send them quick to Hell!" So ran the cry. And twice and thrice the villagers of the Pays de Retz charged desperately as men who fight for their lives. "Stand to it, men!" cried Pierre de l'Hopital. "Gilles de Retz shall have fair trial! " _But I shall try him! _" he added, under his breath. Never was seen such a sight as the procession which conducted Gilles de Retz to the city of Nantes. The Duke had sent for his whole band of soldiers, and these, in ordered companies, marched in front and rear. A triple file guarded the prisoners, and even their levelled pikes could scarce beat back the furious rushes of the populace. It was like a civil war, for the assailants struck fiercely at the soldiers--as if in protecting him, they became accessory to the crimes of the hated marshal. " _Barbe Bleu! Barbe Bleu! _" they cried. "Slay _Barbe Bleu_! Make his beard blood-red. He hath dipped it often in the life-blood of our children. Now we will redden it with his own!" So ran the tumult, surging and gathering and scattering. And ever the pikes of the guard flashed, and the ordered files shouldered a path through the press. "Make way there!" cried the provost marshals. "Make way for the prisoners of the Duke!" And as they entered the city, from behind and before, from all the windows and roofs, rose the hoarse grunting roar of the hatred and cursing of a whole people. But the object of all this rested calm and unmoved, and his cruel grey eye had no expression in it save a certain tolerant and amused contempt. "Bah!" he muttered. "Would that I had slain ten millions of you! It is my only regret that I had not the time. It is almost unworthy to die for a few score children!" During the journey to Nantes, Gilles de Retz kept the grand reserve with which, when he came to himself, he had treated those who had captured him. To the Duke only would he condescend to reply, and to him he rather spoke as an equal unjustly treated than as a guilty prisoner and suppliant. "For this, Sire of Brittany," he said, "must you answer to your overlord, the King of France, whose minister and marshal I am!" The Duke would have made some feeble reply, but Pierre de l'Hopital cut across the conversation with that stern irony which characterised him. "My lord," he said, "remember that before you were made Marshal of France you were born a subject of the Duke of Brittany! And as such you shall be judged." "I decline to stand at your tribunal!" said the marshal, haughtily. " _Soit! _" said the President, indifferently, "but all the same you shall be tried!" Duke John, knowing well that while his court was being held in the capital city of his province, and especially during the trial of Gilles de Retz, Nantes was no place for young maidens who had suffered like Maud Lindesay and Margaret Douglas, sent them under escort to the Castle of Angers. Sholto MacKim and his father were allowed to accompany them, that they might not be without some of their own country to speak with during their sojourn in France. The Lord James, however, elected to abide with the court. For there were many ladies there, and, having nobility of address and desiring to perfect himself in the niceties of fashionable speech (which changed daily), he had great pleasure in their society, and rode in the lists by the side of the Loire with even more than his former gallantry and success. For, as he said, he needed some compensation for the long abstinence enforced upon him by his habit of holy palmer. And right amply did he make himself amends, and was accounted by dames fair and free the lightsomest and properest Scot who had ever come into the land of France. With him Laurence remained, both because his father was still angry with him on account of his desertion of them in Paris, and also because having been so long in the Castle of Machecoul, there were important matters concerning which in the forthcoming trial he alone could give evidence. Pierre de l'Hopital would have detained the Lady Sybilla as a possible accomplice of the Sieur de Retz, but by the intercession of the Scottish maidens, as well as by the sworn evidence of Sholto and the Lord James, testifying that wholly by her means Gilles de Retz had finally been caught red-handed, she was permitted to depart whither she would. "I will go to my sister," she said to Sholto, who came to know how he could serve her. "It matters little. My work is nearly done!" So, riding as was her custom all alone upon a white palfrey, she passed out of their sight towards the south. * * * * * In the city of Nantes the rumour of the taking of Gilles de Retz had spread like wild-fire, and as the cavalcade rode through the streets, the windows rained down curses and the citizens hooted up from the sidewalks. But the marshal kept his haughty and disdainful regard, appearing like a noble nature who perforce companies for the nonce with meaner men. He sat his favourite charger like a true companion of Dunois and De Richemont, and, as more than one remarked, on this occasion he looked like the royal prince and the Duke of Brittany the prisoner. So in the New Tower of the Castle of Nantes, Gilles de Retz was placed to wait his trial. There is no need to give a long account of it. The documents have been printed in plain letter, and all the world knows how Clerk Henriet faltered under the stern questioning of Pierre de l'Hopital, and how finally he declared fully all these iniquities without parallel in which he had borne so cruel a part. Poitou, more faithful to his master, held out till the threat of torture and the appeals of his friend Henriet broke him down. But the attitude and bearing of the chief culprit deserve that the historian should not wholly pass them over. Even in his first haughty and contemptuous silence, Gilles de Retz was shifting his ground, and with a cool unheated intelligence orienting himself to new conditions. It soon became evident to his mind that the powers of Evil in which he trusted, and to whose service he had consecrated his life and fortune, had befooled and betrayed him. Well--even so would he fool them--if, by the grace of God, there were yet any merit or hope in the service of Good. The priests said so. The Scripture said so, and they might be right after all. At least, the thing was worth trying. For a cold and calculating brain lay behind the worst excesses of the terrible Lord de Retz. The religion of the Cross might not be of much final use--still, it was all that remained, and Gilles de Retz determined to avail himself of it. So once more he apostasised from Barran-Sathanas to Jehovah. With an effrontery almost too stupendous for belief, he arrayed himself in the white robes of a Carmelite novice and spent his prison days in singing litanies and in private confession with his religious adviser. When the great day of the trial at last arrived, the marshal, who had expected on the bench the weak kindly countenance of Duke John, was called upon to confront the indomitable judicial rectitude of Pierre de l'Hopital, President and Grand-Seneschal of Brittany. Gilles de Retz appeared at his trial dressed in white of the richest materials and with all his military decorations upon him. But his judge, habited in stern and simple black, was not in the least intimidated. Then came the great surprise. After the evidence of Henriet and Poitou had been read to him, the marshal was asked to plead. To the surprise of all, the accused claimed benefit of clergy. "I have been a great sinner," he said, "I have indeed deserved a thousand deaths. But now I am a man of God. I have confessed. I have received absolution for all my sins. God has forgiven me, and my soul is cleansed!" "Good!" answered Pierre de l'Hopital, "I have nothing to do with your soul. I must leave that, as you very pertinently remark, to God. But I am here to try your body, and if found guilty to condemn that body to suffer the penalties by law provided according to the statutes of Brittany." Then Clerk Henriet was brought in to testify more fully of the crimes beyond parallel in the history of mankind. The court had been hung round with black, and the only object which appeared prominent was a beautiful ivory crucifix with a noble figure of the Redeemer of Men carved upon it. This was suspended, according to the custom, over the head of the President of the Tribunal. Henriet had not proceeded far with his terrible relation of well nigh inconceivable crimes when he stopped. "I cannot go on," he said, in a broken appealing voice; "I cannot tell what I have to tell with That Figure looking down upon me!" So, with the whole Court standing up in reverence, the image of the Most Pitiful was solemnly veiled from sight, that such deeds of darkness might not be so much as named in that holy and gracious presence. And during the ceremony Friar Gilles of the order of the Carmelites stood up more reverently than any, for now, seeing that no better might be, he had definitely renounced Barran-Sathanas and cast in his lot with God Almighty. * * * * * "The sentence of this court is that you, Gilles de Laval, Lord of Retz, Marshal of France, and you, Poitou and Henriet, be carried to the meadow of La Biesse at nine of the clock on the morning of to-morrow, and that you be there hanged and burned till you be dead. And to God the Just One be the glory!" The voice of Pierre de l'Hopital rang out through the silence of the hall of judgment. "Amen!" said Friar Gilles, devoutly crossing himself. And so in due course on the meadow of La Biesse, by the side of the blue Loire, the evil soul of Gilles de Retz went to its own place with all the paraphernalia of repentance and in the full odour of a somewhat hectic sanctity. * * * * * The day after the burning, a little company of riders left the city of Angers, journeying westward along the Loire. It consisted of the maidens Margaret Douglas and Maud Lindesay, with Sholto MacKim and a dozen horsemen belonging to his Grace of Brittany. It had been arranged that they were to be joined, upon an eminence above the river on the right bank, by the Lord James, Malise, and Laurence, with the escort which was to accompany them to the port of Saint Nazaire. There (as was necessary in order to escape the troublesome navigation of the swift and treacherous upper reaches) they would find vessels ready to set sail for Scotland. As the little cloud of riders left behind them the black towers of Angers, they passed through woodland glades wherein, in spite of the lateness of the season, the birds were singing. The air was mild and delightsome. At last, leaving the river, they struck away inland, having the frowning towers of Champtocé on their left as they rode. Presently they came to a forest, wherein in days before the great cruelty, Gilles de Retz had often hunted the wolf and the wild boar. Here the woodland paths were covered deep with fallen leaves, and the naked branches spoke of the desolation of a dead year. As the maids rode forward first of their company and talked, as was natural, of that which had taken place the day before at Nantes, they became aware of the Lady Sybilla riding towards them on her palfrey of white. She would have passed them without speech, with her head downcast and her eyes fixed upon the dank ground with its covering drift of dead autumnal leaves. But Margaret, grateful for that which the Lady Sybilla had done for them at Machecoul, spurred her steed and rode thwartwise to intercept her. "Sybilla," she said, "you will come with us to Scotland. I have many castles there, and, they tell me, a princessdom of mine own. We shall all be happy together and forget these ill times. Maud and I can never repay that which you have done for us." "Yes, I pray you come with us," said Maud, a little more slowly, "we will be your sisters, and the ill times shall not come again." The Lady Sybilla smiled a sad subtle smile and shook her head. "I thank you. I thank you more than you know. It eases my heart that you should forgive a woman such as I for all the evil she has brought you and yours. But I am now no fit companion for you or any. I am become but a wandering shape, speaking to one who cannot answer, and seeking him whom I can never find." The little Maid, being but a child, mistook her meaning. "No, no," she cried, "your life is not done. If the one whom you love hath left you unkindly--well, bide awhile, and when the first smart is passed, we will marry you to some braver and more handsome knight. There are many such in Scotland. I pray you come with Maud and me even as we wish you. Why, there would not be three like us in all the land. I wager we will set kings by the ears between us. Though, as for me, I can only marry a Douglas!" The smile of the Lady Sybilla grew ever sadder and ever sweeter. "The man whom I loved, and who loved me, I betrayed to the death. There is no forgiveness for such as I in this life. Perhaps there may be in the next. At least, _he_ forgave me, and that is enough. He believed in me against myself, and I will wait. Till then I go hither and thither and none shall hinder me or molest--for upon Sybilla de Thouars God hath set the seal of Cain!" Margaret Douglas flicked her steed impatiently, causing the spirited little beast to curvet. "I think it is very ill-done of you not to come to Scotland with us," she said petulantly, "when we would have been so good to you!" "Too good, too kind," said the Lady Sybilla, very gently; "such kindness is not for such as I am. But if I may, while I live I will keep the golden cross you lent me--the crucifix your brother gave to you on your birthday!" "Keep it--it is yours! I do not want it!" cried Margaret, glad to have found some way of evidencing her gratitude. "I thank you," said Sybilla de Thouars; "some day I may come to Scotland. And if I do, you shall come out from Thrieve and meet me by the white thorns of the Carlinwark at the hour when the little children sing!" And so, without other farewell, she turned and rode slowly away down the avenues of fallen leaves, till the folding woodlands hid her from the sight of those two who watched her with tear-blurred eyes and hearts strangely stirred with pity for the fate of her whom they had once hated with such good cause.	{ "id": "17733" }
61	LEAP YEAR IN GALLOWAY	Morning dawned fair over the wide strath of Dee. Cairnsmuir and Ben Gairn stood out south and north like blue, round-shouldered sentinels. Castle Thrieve rose grey in the midst of the water-meadows, massive and sombre in the early sunrise. Andro the Penman and his brother John, with the taciturnity natural to early risers, were silently hoisting the flag which denoted the presence of the noble young chatelaine of the great fortress. Sholto also was early astir, for the affairs of the castle and of the host were in his hand, and there was much business to be despatched that morning. The young Avondale Douglases were riding away from Thrieve, for word had come that James the Gross, seventh Earl of Douglas, was surely at death's door. "Besides," said William Douglas, "wherefore should we stay--our work is done. No one will molest our cousin in her heritages now! We five have stood about her while there was need. But for the present Sir Sholto and his men can keep count and reckoning with any from the back-shore of Leswalt to Berwick bound." "Aye, indeed," cried James Douglas, "we will go till the time come when the suitors gather, like corbies about a dead lamb!" "That is not a savoury comparison," cried Margaret of Douglas, now grown older, and already giving more than a mere promise of that wondrous beauty which afterwards made her celebrated in all lands, "but after all, you, cousin James, have some right to make it. For, but for you and our good Sholto there, this little ewe lamb would have been carrion indeed!" "Good-by!" cried James of Avondale. "Haste thee and grow up, sweet coz. Then will I come back with the rest of the corbies and take my chance of the feast. I will keep myself for that day." But William Douglas sat square and silent on his charger. The Maid of Galloway waved her hand gaily to the younger of the knights. "You shall have your chance with the rest," she cried; "but you will not care about me then. Very likely I may have to fleech and cozen with you like a sweetie-wife at a fair before either of you will marry me. And you know I have sworn on the bones of Saint Bride to marry none but a Douglas of the Douglases!" Then William Douglas saluted without a word, and turning his bridle-rein rode away with his face steadfastly set to the north. But James ever cried back farewells and jovial words long after he was out of hearing. And even on the heights of Keltonmuir he still fluttered a gay kerchief in his left hand. Then Margaret Douglas went back within the gates, where her eyes fell upon Maud Lindesay, coming through the castle yard to meet her. For that morning she had not wished to encounter Sholto--at least not among so many. The two maidens walked on together, and which was the fairer, the black or the nut-brown, none could say who beheld them. After a while Margaret Douglas sighed. "I wonder which of them I like the best," she said. Maud laughed a merry, scornful laugh in which was a world of superior knowledge. "You do not like either of them very much yet, or you would have no difficulty about the matter!" said this wise woman. "Well, I wonder which of them loves me best," she went on; "James tells me of it a hundred times every day and all day. But William says nothing. He only looks at me often, as if he disapproved of me. I am over light for him, I trow. He thinks not of me." Then after a pause she said, again with her finger on her lip, "I wonder which of them would do most for my sake?" "I know!" said Maud Lindesay, promptly. * * * * * With the young Avondales there had ridden forth Malise and his son Laurence on their way to the Abbey of Dulce Cor. Sholto went also with them to convoy them to the fords of Urr. For Laurence was to be a clerk after all. And this is the way he explained it. "The Abbot cannot live long, and there is no Douglas to succeed him. Then your little Maid will make me Abbot, if that Maud of yours does her duty." "She is not my Maud yet," sighed Sholto. For, as they say in Scotland, the lady had proved "driech to draw up." "But she will be in good time," urged Laurence, "and she must persuade the Lady Margaret of my many and surprising virtues." "The Lady Margaret hath doubtless seen these for herself. Were you not bound beside her on the iron altar?" said Sholto. "Yes, but I dirked the old witch-woman, or so they say. And that was no clerkly action!" objected his brother. "Fear not," said Sholto, "you have all of her favour you need without working by means of another's petticoat. But how about marrying? You cannot wed or woo if you are a clerk. You did not use to be so unfond of a lass in the gloamings along the sweet strand called the Walk of Lovers--you know where!" "Pshaw," cried Laurence, "I never yet saw the lass I liked better than myself. And I never expect to see one that I shall like better than the fat revenues of the Abbacy of Dulce Cor!" He paused a moment as if roguishly considering some point. "Besides," he went on, "wed I may not, but woo--that is another matter! I have never yet heard that an Abbot--" "Good-day!" cried Sholto, suddenly, at this point, "I will not stay to hear you blaspheme!" And leaving his father and Laurence to ride westward he turned him back towards Thrieve. "I will surely return to-morrow," cried Malise; "I must first see this gay bird safely in mew. Aye, and bid the Abbot William clip his wings too!" So in the gay morning sunshine and with the reflection of the lift glinting dark blue from tarn and lakelet, Sholto MacKim rode towards the Castle of Thrieve. He bethought him on all that was bygone. The Avondales were gone, James the Gross might die any moment--might even now be dead and William Douglas be Earl in his place! He thought over William of Avondale's last words to himself, spoken with deep solemnity and in all the dignity of a great spirit. "Sholto, you and yours have brought to justice the chief betrayer. The time is at hand when, having the power, I will settle with Crichton and Livingston, the lesser villains. And in that count and reckoning you must be my right-hand man. Keep your Countess, the sweet young Margaret, safe for my sake. She is very precious to me--indeed, beyond my life. And for this time fare you well!" And he had reached a mailed hand to the captain of the Douglas guard, and when Sholto would have bent his head upon it to kiss it, William of Avondale gripped his suddenly as one grasps a comrade's hand when the heart is touched, and so was gone. At the verge of the flowery pastures that ring the isle of Thrieve, Sholto met Maud Lindesay, wandering alone. At sight of her he leaped from his horse, and, without salutation of spoken speech, walked by her side. "How came you here alone?" he asked. Maud made her little pouting movement of the lips, and kicked viciously at a tuft of grass. "I forgot," she said hypocritically, "I ought to have asked leave of that noble knight the Captain of Thrieve. We poor maids must not breathe without his permission--no, nor even walk out to meet him when we are lonesome." Maud Lindesay lifted her eyes suddenly and shot at Sholto a glance so disabling, that, alarmed for the consequences, she veiled her eyes again circumspectly by dropping her long lashes upon her cheek. "Did you really come out to meet me, Maud?" cried Sholto, all the life flooding back into his cheeks, "in this do you speak truth and no mockery?" "I only said that we maidens were so much in fear of our Castle Governor, that we must not walk out even to meet him!" At this Sholto let his horse go where it would, and, as they were passing at the time through a coppice of hazel, he caught his saucy sweetheart quickly by the wrist. "Mistress Maud, you shall not play with me!" he said; "you will tell me plainly--do you love me or do you not?" Maud Lindesay puckered her pretty face as if she had been about to cry. "You hurt my arm!" she said plaintively, looking up at him with the long pathetic gaze of a gentle helpless animal undeservedly put in pain. Sholto perforce released the pressure on her arm. She instantly put both hands behind her. "You did not hurt me at all--hear you that, Master Sholto," she cried, "and I do not love you--not that much, Sir Noble Bully!" And she snapped her finger and thumb like a flash beneath his nose. "Not that much!" she repeated viciously, and did it again. Sholto turned away sternly. "You are nothing but a silly girl, and not worthy that any true man should either love or marry you!" he said, walking off in the direction of the castle. Maud Lindesay looked after him a moment as if not believing her eyes and ears. Then, so soon as she made sure that he was indeed not coming back, she tripped quickly after him. He was taking long strides, and it required a series of small hops and skips to keep up with him. "Not really, Sholto?" she said beseechingly, almost running beside him now. He walked so fast. "Yes, madam, really!" said that young knight, still more sternly. She took a little run to get a step in front of him, so that she might advantageously look up into his face. "Then you will not marry me, Sholto?" Her hands were clasped with the sweetest petitionary grace. " _No! _" The monosyllable escaped from his lips with a snort like a puff of steam from under the lid of a boiling pot. "Not even if I ask you very nicely, Sholto?" "No!" The negative came again, apparently fiercer than before, almost like an explosion indeed. But still there was a hollow sound about it somewhere. At this the girl stopped suddenly and, drawing a little lace kerchief from her bosom, she sank her head into it in apparent abandonment of grief. "Oh, what shall I do?" she wailed, "Sholto says he will not marry me, and I have asked him so sweetly. What shall I do? What shall I do? I will e'en go and drown me in the Dee water!" And with her kerchief still held to her eyes--or at least (to be wholly accurate) to one of them--the despised maiden ran towards the river bank. She did not run very fast, but still she ran. Now this was more than Sholto had bargained for, and he in turn pursued her light-foot, swifter than he had ever run in his life. He overtook her just as she reached the little ascent of the rocks by the river margin. His hand fell upon her shoulder and he turned her round. She was still shaking with sobs--or something. "I will--I will, I _will_ drown myself!" she cried, her kerchief closer to her eyes. "I will marry you--I will do anything. I love you, Maud!" "You do not--you cannot!" she cried, pushing him fiercely away, "you said you would not! That I was not fit to marry." "I did not mean it--I lied! I did not know what I said! I will do whatever you bid me!" Sholto was grovelling now. "Then you will marry me--if I do not drown myself?" She spoke with a sort of relenting, delicious and tentative. "Yes--yes! When you will--to-morrow--now!" She dropped the kerchief and the laughing eyes of naughty Maud Lindesay looked suddenly out upon Sholto like sunshine in a dark place. They were dry and full of merriment. Not a trace of tears was to be discerned in either of them. Then she gave another little skip, and, catching him by the arm, forced him to walk with her toward Castle Thrieve. "Of course you will marry me, silly! You could not help yourself, Sholto--and it shall be when I like too. But now that you have been so stern and crusty with me, I am not sure that I will not take Landless Jock after all!" * * * * * This is the end, and yet not the end. For still, say the country folk, when the leaves are greenest by the lakeside, when the white thorn is whitest and the sun drops most gloriously behind the purpling hills of the west, when the children sing like mavises on the clachan greens, you may chance to spy under the Three Thorns of Carlinwark a lady fairer than mortal eye hath seen. She will be sitting gracefully on a white palfrey and hearkening to the bairns singing by the watersides. And the tears fall down her cheeks as she listens, in the place where in the spring-time of the year young William Douglas first met the Lady Sybilla. THE END	{ "id": "17733" }
1	: A Rescue.	Most of the towns standing on our seacoast have suffered a radical change in the course of the last century. Railways, and the fashion of summer holiday making, have transformed them altogether, and great towns have sprung up where fishing villages once stood. There are a few places, however, which seem to have been passed by, by the crowd. The number yearly becomes smaller, as the iron roads throw out fresh branches. With the advent of these comes the speculative builder. Rows of terraces and shops are run up, promenades are made, bathing machines and brass bands become familiar objects, and in a few years the original character of the place altogether disappears. Sidmouth, for a long time, was passed by, by the world of holiday makers. East and west of her, great changes took place, and many far smaller villages became fashionable seaside watering places. The railway, which passed by some twelve miles away, carried its tens of thousands westward, but left few of them for Sidmouth, and anyone who visited the pretty little place, fifteen years back, would have seen it almost as it stood when our story opens a century ago. There are few places in England with a fairer site. It lies embosomed in the hills, which rise sharply on either side of it, while behind stretches a rich, undulating country, thickly dotted with orchards and snug homesteads, with lanes bright with wildflowers and ferns, with high hedges and trees meeting overhead. The cold breezes, which render so bare of interest the walks round the great majority of our seaside towns, pass harmlessly over the valley of the Sid, where the vegetation is as bright and luxuriant as if the ocean lay leagues away, instead of breaking on the shore within a few feet of the front line of houses. The cliffs which, on either side, rise from the water's edge, are neither white like those to the east, nor grey as are the rugged bulwarks to the west. They are of a deep red, warm and pleasant to the eye, with clumps of green showing brightly up against them on every little ledge where vegetation can get a footing; while the beach is neither pebble, nor rock, nor sand, but a smooth, level surface sloping evenly down; hard and pleasant to walk on when the sea has gone down, and the sun has dried and baked it for an hour or two; but slippery and treacherous when freshly wetted, for the red cliffs are of clay. Those who sail past in a boat would hardly believe that this is so, for the sun has baked its face, and the wind dried it, till it is cracked and seamed, and makes a brave imitation of red granite; but the clammy ooze, when the sea goes down, tells its nature only too plainly, and Sidmouth will never be a popular watering place for children, for there is no digging sand castles here, and a fall will stain light dresses and pinafores a ruddy hue, and the young labourers will look as if they had been at work in a brick field. But a century since, the march of improvement had nowhere begun; and there were few larger, and no prettier, seaside villages on the coast than Sidmouth. It was an afternoon in August. The sun was blazing down hotly, scarce a breath of wind was stirring, and the tiny waves broke along the shore with a low rustle like that of falling leaves. Some fishermen were at work, recaulking a boat hauled up on the shore. Others were laying out some nets to dry in the sun. Some fisher boys were lying asleep, like dogs basking in the heat; and a knot of lads, sitting under the shade of a boat, were discussing with some warmth the question of smuggling. "What do you say to it, Jim Walsham?" one of the party said, looking up at a boy some twelve years old, who was leaning against a boat, but who had hitherto taken no part in the discussion. "There is no doubt that it's wrong," the boy said. "Not wrong like stealing, and lying, and that sort of thing; still it's wrong, because it's against the law; and the revenue men, if they come upon a gang landing the tubs, fight with them, and if any are killed they are not blamed for it, so there is no doubt about its being wrong. Then, on the other hand, no one thinks any the worse of the men that do it, and there is scarce a one, gentle or simple, as won't buy some of the stuff if he gets a chance, so it can't be so very wrong. It must be great fun to be a smuggler, to be always dodging the king's cutters, and running cargoes under the nose of the officers ashore. There is some excitement in a life like that." "There is plenty of excitement in fishing," one of the boys said sturdily. "If you had been out in that storm last March, you would have had as much excitement as you liked. For twelve hours we expected to go down every minute, and we were half our time bailing for our lives." An approving murmur broke from the others, who were all, with the exception of the one addressed as Jim Walsham, of the fisher class. His clothing differed but little from that of the rest. His dark blue pilot trousers were old and sea stained, his hands and face were dyed brown with exposure to the sun and the salt water; but there was something, in his manner and tone of voice, which showed that a distinction existed. James Walsham was, indeed, the son of the late doctor of the village, who had died two years previously. Dr. Walsham had been clever in his profession, but circumstances were against him. Sidmouth and its neighbourhood were so healthy, that his patients were few and far between; and when he died, of injuries received from being thrown over his horse's head, when the animal one night trod on a stone coming down the hill into Sidmouth, his widow and son were left almost penniless. Mrs. Walsham was, fortunately, an energetic woman, and a fortnight after her husband's death, she went round among the tradesmen of the place and the farmers of the neighbourhood, and announced her intention of opening a school for girls. She had received a good education, being the daughter of a clergyman, and she soon obtained enough pupils to enable her to pay her way, and to keep up the pretty home in which her husband lived in the outskirts of Sidmouth. If she would have taken boarders, she could have obtained far higher terms, for good schools were scarce; but this she would not do, and her pupils all lived within distances where they could walk backwards and forwards to their homes. Her evenings she devoted to her son, and, though the education which she was enabled to give him would be considered meagre, indeed, in these days of universal cramming, he learned as much as the average boy of the period. He would have learned more had he followed her desires, and devoted the time when she was engaged in teaching to his books; but this he did not do. For a few hours in the day he would work vigorously at his lessons. The rest of his time he spent either on the seashore, or in the boats of the fishermen; and he could swim, row, or handle a boat under sail in all weather, as well or better than any lad in the village of his own age. His disposition was a happy one, and he was a general favourite among the boatmen. He had not, as yet, made up his mind as to his future. His mother wanted him to follow his father's profession. He himself longed to go to sea, but he had promised his mother that he would never do so without her consent, and that consent he had no hope of obtaining. The better-class people in the village shook their heads gravely over James Walsham, and prophesied no good things of him. They considered that he demeaned himself greatly by association with the fisher boys, and more than once he had fallen into disgrace, with the more quiet minded of the inhabitants, by mischievous pranks. His reputation that way once established, every bit of mischief in the place, which could not be clearly traced to someone else, was put down to him; and as he was not one who would peach upon others to save himself, he was seldom in a position to prove his innocence. The parson had once called upon Mrs. Walsham, and had talked to her gravely over her son's delinquencies, but his success had not been equal to his anticipations. Mrs. Walsham had stood up warmly for her son. "The boy may get into mischief sometimes, Mr. Allanby, but it is the nature of boys to do so. James is a good boy, upright and honourable, and would not tell a lie under any consideration. What is he to do? If I could afford to send him to a good school it would be a different thing, but that you know I cannot do. From nine in the morning, until five in the afternoon, my time is occupied by teaching, and I cannot expect, nor do I wish, that he should sit moping indoors all day. He had far better be out in the boats with the fishermen, than be hanging about the place doing nothing. If anything happened to me, before he is started in life, there would be nothing for him but to take to the sea. I am laying by a little money every month, and if I live for another year there will be enough to buy him a fishing boat and nets. I trust that it may not come to that, but I see nothing derogatory in his earning an honest living with his own hands. He will always be something better than a common fisherman. The education I have striven to give him, and his knowledge that he was born a gentleman, will nerve him to try and rise. "As to what you say about mischief, so far as I know all boys are mischievous. I know that my own brothers were always getting into scrapes, and I have no doubt, Mr. Allanby, that when you look back upon your own boyhood, you will see that you were not an exception to the general rule." Mr. Allanby smiled. He had come rather against his own inclinations; but his wife had urged him to speak to Mrs. Walsham, her temper being ruffled by the disappearance of two favourite pigeons, whose loss she, without a shadow of evidence, most unjustly put down to James Walsham. The parson was by no means strict with his flock. He was a tall man, inclined to be portly, a good shot and an ardent fisherman; and although he did not hunt, he was frequently seen on his brown cob at the meet, whenever it took place within a reasonable distance of Sidmouth; and without exactly following the hounds, his knowledge of the country often enabled him to see more of the hunt than those who did. As Mrs. Walsham spoke, the memory of his old school and college days came across him. "That is the argumentum ad hominem, Mrs. Walsham, and when a lady takes to that we can say no more. You know I like your boy. There is much that is good in him; but it struck me that you were letting him run a little too wild. However, there is much in what you say, and I don't believe that he is concerned in half the mischief that he gets credit for. Still, you must remember that a little of the curb, just a little, is good for us all. It spoils a horse to be always tugging at his mouth, but he will go very badly if he does not feel that there is a hand on the reins. "I have said the same thing to the squire. He spoils that boy of his, for whom, between ourselves, I have no great liking. The old man will have trouble with him before he is done, or I am greatly mistaken." Nothing came of Mr. Allanby's visit. Mrs. Walsham told James that he had been there to remonstrate with her. "I do not want to stop you from going out sailing, Jim; but I wish you would give up your mischievous pranks, they only get you bad will and a bad name in the place. Many people here think that I am wrong in allowing you to associate so much with the fisher boys, and when you get into scrapes, it enables them to impress upon me how right they were in their forecasts. I do not want my boy to be named in the same breath with those boys of Robson's, or young Peterson, or Blame." "But you know I have nothing to do with them, mother," James said indignantly. "They spend half their time about the public house, and they do say that when Peterson has been out with that lurcher of his, he has been seen coming back with his coat bulged out, and there is often a smell of hare round his father's cottage at supper time. You know I wouldn't have anything to do with them." "No, Jim, I am sure you would not; but if people mix up your name with theirs it is almost as bad for you as if you had. Unfortunately, people are too apt not to distinguish between tricks which are really only the outcome of high spirit, and a lack of something better to do, and real vice. Therefore, Jim, I say, keep yourself from mischief. I know that, though you are out of doors so many hours of the day, you really do get through a good deal of work; but other people do not give you credit for this. Remember how your father was respected here. Try to act always as you would have done had he been alive, and you cannot go far wrong." James had done his best, but he found it hard to get rid of his reputation for getting into mischief, and more than once, when falsely suspected, he grumbled that he might just as well have the fun of the thing, for he was sure to have the blame. As Jim Walsham and his companions were chatting in the shade of a boat, their conversation was abruptly broken off by the sight of a figure coming along the road. It was a tall figure, with a stiff military bearing. He was pushing before him a large box, mounted on a framework supported by four wheels. Low down, close to the ground, swung a large flat basket. In this, on a shawl spread over a thick bed of hay, sat a little girl some five years old. "It is the sergeant," one of the boys exclaimed. "I wonder whether he has got a fresh set of views? The last were first-rate ones." The sergeant gave a friendly nod to the boys as he passed, and then, turning up the main street from the beach, went along until he came to a shaded corner, and there stopped. The boys had all got up and followed him, and now stood looking on with interest at his proceedings. The little girl had climbed out of her basket as soon as he stopped, and after asking leave, trotted back along the street to the beach, and was soon at play among the seaweed and stones. She was a singularly pretty child, with dark blue eyes, and brown hair with a touch of gold. Her print dress was spotlessly clean and neat; a huge flapping sunbonnet shaded her face, whose expression was bright and winning. "Well, boys," the sergeant said cheerfully, "how have you been getting on since I was here last? Nobody drowned, I hope, or come to any ill. Not that we must grumble, whatever comes. We have all got to do our duty, whether it be to march up a hill with shot and shell screaming and whistling round, as I have had to do; or to be far out at sea with the wind blowing fit to take the hair off your head, as comes to your lot sometimes; or following the plough from year's end to year's end, as happens to some. We have got to make the best of it, whatever it is. "I have got a grand new set of pictures from Exeter. They came all the way down from London town for me by waggon. London Bridge, and Windsor Castle, with the flag flying over it, telling that the king--God bless his gracious majesty--is at home. "Then, I have got some pictures of foreign parts that will make you open your eyes. There's Niagara. I don't know whether you've heard of it, but it's a place where a great river jumps down over a wall of rock, as high as that steeple there, with a roar like thunder that can be heard, they say, on a still night, for twenty miles round. "I have got some that will interest you more still, because you are sailors, or are going to be sailors. I have got one of the killing of a whale. He has just thrown a boat, with five sailors, into the air, with a lash of his tail; but it's of no use, for there are other boats round, and the harpoons are striking deep in his flesh. He is a big fish, and a strong one; but he will be beaten, for he does not know how to use his strength. That's the case with many men. They throw away their life and their talents, just because they don't know what's in them, and what they might do if they tried. "And I have got a picture of the fight with the Spanish Armada. You have heard about that, boys, surely; for it began out there, over the water, almost in sight of Sidmouth, and went on all the way up the Channel; our little ships hanging on to the great Spaniards and giving them no rest, but worrying them, and battering them, till they were glad to sail away to the Dutch coast. But they were not safe there, for we sent fire ships at them, and they had to cut and run; and then a storm came on, and sunk many, and drove others ashore all around our coasts, even round the north of Scotland and Ireland. "You will see it all here, boys, and as you know, the price is only one penny." By this time, the sergeant had let down one side of the box and discovered four round holes, and had arranged a low stool in front, for any of those, who were not tall enough to look through the glasses, to stand upon. A considerable number of girls and boys had now gathered round, for Sergeant Wilks and his show were old, established favourites at Sidmouth, and the news of his arrival had travelled quickly round the place. Four years before, he had appeared there for the first time, and since then had come every few months. He travelled round the southwestern counties, Dorset and Wilts, Somerset, Devon, and Cornwall, and his cheery good temper made him a general favourite wherever he went. He was somewhat of a martinet, and would have no crowding and pushing, and always made the boys stand aside till the girls had a good look; but he never hurried them, and allowed each an ample time to see the pictures, which were of a better class than those in most travelling peep shows. There was some murmuring, at first, because the show contained none of the popular murders and blood-curdling scenes to which the people were accustomed. "No," the sergeant had said firmly, when the omission was suggested to him; "the young ones see quite enough scenes of drunkenness and fighting. When I was a child, I remember seeing in a peep show the picture of a woman lying with her head nearly cut off, and her husband with a bloody chopper standing beside her; and it spoiled my sleep for weeks. No, none of that sort of thing for Sergeant Wilks. He has fought for his country, and has seen bloodshed enough in his time, and the ground half covered with dead and dying men; but that was duty--this is pleasure. Sergeant Wilks will show the boys and girls, who pay him their pennies, views in all parts of the world, such as would cost them thousands of pounds if they travelled to see them, and all as natural as life. He will show them great battles by land and sea, where the soldiers and sailors shed their blood like water in the service of their country. But cruel murders and notorious crimes he will not show them." It was not the boys and girls, only, who were the sergeant's patrons. Picture books were scarce in those days, and grown-up girls and young men were not ashamed to pay their pennies to peep into the sergeant's box. There was scarcely a farm house throughout his beat where he was not known and welcomed. His care of the child, who, when he first came round, was but a year old, won the heart of the women; and a bowl of bread and milk for the little one, and a mug of beer and a hunch of bread and bacon for himself, were always at his service, before he opened his box and showed its wonders to the maids and children of the house. Sidmouth was one of his regular halting places, and, indeed, he visited it more often than any other town on his beat. There was always a room ready for him there, in the house of a fisherman's widow, when he arrived on the Saturday, and he generally stopped till the Monday. Thus he had come to know the names of most of the boys of the place, as well as of many of the elders; for it was his custom, of a Saturday evening, after the little one was in bed, to go and smoke his pipe in the taproom of the "Anchor," where he would sometimes relate tales of his adventures to the assembled fishermen. But, although chatty and cheery with his patrons, Sergeant Wilks was a reticent, rather than a talkative, man. At the "Anchor" he was, except when called upon for a story, a listener rather than a talker. As to his history, or the county to which he belonged, he never alluded to it, although communicative enough as to his military adventures; and any questions which were asked him, he quietly put on one side. He had intimated, indeed, that the father and mother of his grandchild were both dead; but it was not known whether she was the child of his son or daughter; for under his cheerful talk there was something of military strictness and sternness, and he was not a man of whom idle questions would be asked. "Now, boys and girls," he said, "step up; the show is ready. Those who have got a penny cannot spend it better. Those who haven't must try and get their father or mother to give them one, and see the show later on. Girls first. Boys should always give way to their sisters. The bravest men are always the most courteous and gentle with women." Four girls, of various ages, paid their pennies and took their places at the glasses, and the sergeant then began to describe the pictures, his descriptions of the wonders within being so exciting, that several boys and girls stole off from the little crowd, and made their way to their homes to coax their parents out of the necessary coin. James Walsham listened a while, and then walked away to the sea, for there would be several sets of girls before it came to the turn of the boys. He strolled along, and as he came within sight of the beach stopped for a moment suddenly, and then, with a shout, ran forward at the top of his speed. The little girl, after playing some time with the seaweed, had climbed into a small boat which lay at the edge of the advancing tide, and, leaning over the stern, watched the little waves as they ran up one after another. A few minutes after she had got into it, the rising tide floated the boat, and it drifted out a few yards, as far as its headrope allowed it. Ignorant of what had happened, the child was kneeling up at the stern, leaning over, and dabbling her hands in the water. No one had noticed her. The boys had all deserted the beach. None of the fishermen were near the spot. Just before James Walsham came within sight of the sea, the child had overbalanced itself. His eye fell on the water just as two arms and a frightened little face appeared above it. There was a little splash, and a struggle, and the sea was bare again. At the top of his speed James dashed across the road, sprang down the beach, and, rushing a few yards into the water, dived down. He knew which way the tide was making, and allowed for the set. A few vigorous strokes, and he reached something white on the surface. It was the sunbonnet which had, in the child's struggles, become unfastened. He dived at once, and almost immediately saw a confused mass before him. Another stroke, and he seized the child's clothes, and, grasping her firmly, rose to the surface and swam towards shore. Although the accident had not been perceived, his shout and sudden rush into the water had called the attention of some of the men, and two or three of them ran into the water, waist deep, to help him out with his little burden. "Well done, Master Walsham! The child would have been drowned if you had not seed it. None of us noticed her fall over. She was playing on the beach last time I seed her." "Is she dead?" James asked, breathless from his exertions. "Not she," the fisherman said. "She could not have been under water a minute. Take her into my cottage, it's one of the nighest. My wife will put her between the blankets, and will soon bring her round." The fisherman's wife met them at the door, and, taking the child from the lad, carried it in, and soon had her wrapped up in blankets. But before this was done she had opened her eyes, for she had scarcely lost consciousness when James had seized her. The lad stood outside the door, waiting for the news, when the sergeant hurried up, one of the fishermen having gone to tell him what had happened, as soon as the child had been carried into the cottage--assuring him, as he did so, that the little one would speedily come round. Just as he came up the door of the cottage opened, and one of the women, who had run in to assist the fisherman's wife, put her head out. "She has opened her eyes," she said. "The little dear will soon be all right." "Thank God for His mercies!" the sergeant said, taking off his hat. "What should I have done if I had lost her? "And I have to thank you, next to God," he said, seizing the boy's hand. "May God bless you, young gentleman! and reward you for having saved my darling. They tell me she must have been drowned, but for you, for no one knew she had fallen in. Had it not been for you, I should come round to look for her, and she would have been gone--gone forever!" and the showman dashed the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand. "I was only just in time," the lad said. "I did not see her fall out of the boat. She was only a few yards away from it when she came up--just as my eyes fell on the spot. I am very glad to have saved her for you; but, of course, it was nothing of a swim. She could not have been many yards out of my depth. Now I will run home and change my things." James Walsham was too much accustomed to be wet through, to care anything about his dripping clothes, but they served him as an excuse to get away, for he felt awkward and embarrassed at the gratitude of the old soldier. He pushed his way through the little crowd, which had now gathered round, and started at a run; for the news had brought almost all those gathered round the peep show to the shore, the excitement of somebody being drowned being superior even to that of the peep show, to the great majority; though a few, who had no hope of obtaining the necessary pennies, had lingered behind, and seized the opportunity for a gratuitous look through the glasses. James ran upstairs and changed his clothes without seeing his mother, and then, taking down one of his lesson books, set to work, shrinking from the idea of going out again, and being made a hero of. Half an hour later there was a knock at the front door, and a few minutes after his mother called him down. He ran down to the parlour, and there found the showman. "Oh, I say," the boy broke out, "don't say anything more about it! I do hate being thanked, and there was nothing in swimming ten yards in a calm sea. Please don't say anything more about it. I would rather you hit me, ever so much." The sergeant smiled gravely, and Mrs. Walsham exclaimed: "Why didn't you come in and tell me about it, Jim? I could not make out at first what Mr.--Mr.--" "Sergeant Wilks, madam." "What Sergeant Wilks meant, when he said that he had called to tell me how grateful he felt to you for saving his little grandchild's life. I am proud of you, Jim." "Oh, mother, don't!" the boy exclaimed. "It is horrid going on so. If I had swum out with a rope through the surf, there might be something in it; but just to jump in at the edge of the water is not worth making a fuss about, one way or the other." "Not to you, perhaps, young gentleman, but it is to me," the showman said. "The child is the light of my life, the only thing I have to care for in the world, and you have saved her. If it had only been by stretching out your hand, I should have been equally grateful. However, I will say no more about it, but I shall not think the less. "But don't you believe, madam, that there was no credit in it. It was just the quickness and the promptness which saved her life. Had your son hesitated a moment it would have been too late, for he would never have found her. It is not likely that your son will ever have any occasion for help of mine, but should there be an opportunity, he may rely upon it that any service I can render him shall be his to the death; and, unlikely as it may seem, it may yet turn out that this brave act of his, in saving the life of the granddaughter of a travelling showman, will not be without its reward." "Is she all right now?" James asked abruptly, anxious to change the conversation. "Yes. She soon came to herself, and wanted to tell me all about it; but I would not let her talk, and in a few minutes she dropped off to sleep, and there I left her. The women tell me she will probably sleep till morning, and will then be as well as ever. And now I must go and look after my box, or the boys will be pulling it to pieces." It was, however, untouched, for in passing the sergeant had told the little crowd that, if they left it alone, he would, on his return, let all see without payment; and during the rest of the afternoon he was fully occupied with successive audiences, being obliged to make his lectures brief, in order that all might have their turn. After the sergeant had left, James took his hat and went for a long walk in the country, in order to escape the congratulations of the other boys. The next day little Agnes was perfectly well, and appeared with her grandfather in the seat, far back in the church, which he always occupied on the Sundays he spent at Sidmouth. On these occasions she was always neatly and prettily dressed, and, indeed, some of the good women of the place, comparing the graceful little thing with their own children, had not been backward in their criticisms on the folly of the old showman, in dressing his child out in clothes fit for a lady.	{ "id": "17766" }
2	: The Showman's Grandchild.	Three months later the showman again appeared at Sidmouth, but did not set up his box as usual. Leaving it at his lodging, he went at once with his grandchild to Mrs. Walsham's. "I have come, madam," he said after the first inquiries about the child had been answered, "on a particular business. It will seem a strange thing to you for a man like me to ask, but things are not quite as they seem, though I can't explain it now. But I am beating about the bush, and not getting any nearer. I have come to ask, madam, whether you would take charge of the child for two years. Of course I am ready to pay anything that you may think proper." "But I don't take boarders," Mrs. Walsham said, much surprised at the proposition. "I only take girls who come in the morning and go away in the afternoon. Besides, they are all a good many years older than your grandchild. None of the girls who come to me are under twelve." "I know, ma'm, I know; and I am sure you must think it a great liberty on my part to ask such a thing," the sergeant said apologetically. "It is not the teaching I want, but just a home for her." Mrs. Walsham felt puzzled. She did, in her heart, feel it to be a liberty. Surely this wandering showman would find no difficulty in getting his grandchild taken care of among people of his own rank in life. It did seem most singular that he should seek to place the child with her. Mrs. Walsham was not given to thinking what her neighbours would say, but she thought of the buzz of comment and astonishment which her taking the charge of this child would excite. She had been particular in keeping her little school to some extent select, and as it was now as large as she could manage unaided, she was able to make it almost a favour to the farmers' wives to take their girls. But to do Mrs. Walsham justice, this thought had less influence with her than that of the time and care which would be required by a child of that age in the house. Certainly, she thought, as she looked at her, sitting with her eyes wide open and an expression of grave wonder in her face, "she is a little darling, and as Jim saved her life I have a special interest in her; but this is out of the question." It was two or three minutes before she answered the showman's last words. "No, it cannot be done, Sergeant Wilks. No money that could be paid me would make up to me for the charge of a child of her age. I am all day in school, and what could a child, especially one accustomed to be out all day, do with herself? The worry and anxiety would be immense. Were it not for my school, it would be different altogether. A child of that age, especially such a sweet little thing as your granddaughter seems to be, would be a pet and amusement; but as it is, I am sorry to say that it is out of the question. But surely you will have no difficulty in finding plenty of good women who would be glad to take her, and to whom, having children of the same age, she would be no trouble whatever." "Yes," the sergeant said slowly, "I was afraid you would say that, ma'm. Besides, though you are good enough not to say it, I know that there must be other objections. I know you must be surprised at my wanting her to be with a lady like yourself. So far as money goes, I could afford to pay fifty pounds a year, and perhaps you might get a girl who could look after Aggie while you are busy." "Fifty pounds a year!" Mrs. Walsham said, greatly surprised. "That is a large sum, a great deal too large a sum for you to pay for the care of such a little child. For half that, there are scores of farmers' wives who would be happy to take her, and where she would be far more happy and comfortable than she would be with me." "I know I could get plenty to take her," the soldier said, "but I have reasons, very particular reasons, why I wish to place her with a lady for two years. I cannot explain those reasons to you, but you may imagine they must be strong ones, for me to be willing to pay fifty pounds a year for her. That money has been laid by from the day she was born, for that purpose. I have other reasons, of my own, for wishing that she should be at Sidmouth rather than at any other place; and I have another reason," and a slight smile stole across his face, "for preferring that she should be with you rather than anyone else. All this must seem very strange to you, madam; but at the end of the two years, when you know what my reasons were, you will acknowledge that they were good ones. "God knows," he went on, looking very grave, "what a wrench it will be for me to part with her. How lonely I shall be, as I tramp the country without her pretty prattle to listen to; but I have got to do it sooner or later, and these two years, when I can see her sometimes, will be a break, and accustom me to do without her sweet face. "Please, madam," he urged, "do not give me a final answer today. I shall not go till Monday, and will call again, if you will let me, that morning; and believe me, if I could tell you all, I could give you reasons which would, I think, induce you to change your mind." So saying, he made a military salute, took the child's hand in his, and was soon striding along towards the sea. Mrs. Walsham was some time before she recovered from her surprise. This was, indeed, a mysterious affair. The earnestness with which the old soldier pleaded his cause had moved her strongly, and had almost persuaded her to accept the proposal, which had at first seemed preposterous. Fifty pounds a year, too, was certainly a handsome sum. She could get a girl from the village for two or three shillings a week to look after the child, and go out with her during school hours, and a hundred pounds would be a very handsome addition to the sum which she had begun, little by little, to lay by for Jim's preparation for the medical profession. In the five years which would elapse, before it would be time for him to enter upon his studies for it, she could hardly hope to lay by more than that sum, and this would at a stroke double it. Certainly it was a tempting offer. She could not do justice to the child, could not give her the care and attention which she ought to have, and which she could have for such a sum elsewhere; but the sergeant knew exactly how she was placed, and if he was willing and anxious for her to assume the charge of the child, why should she refuse this good offer? However, her pupils were waiting for her in the next room, and with an effort Mrs. Walsham put the matter aside, and went in to them. When James returned home to dinner, his mother related to him the whole conversation. James was more amused than puzzled. "It seems a rum idea, mother; but I don't see why you shouldn't take her. She is a sweet little thing, and will be a great amusement. Fifty pounds a year seems a tremendous sum for a man like that to pay; but I suppose he knows his own business, and it will be a great pull for you. You will be able to have all sorts of comforts. I should like it very much. I have often wished I had had a little sister, and she can go out walks with me, you know. It would be like having a big dog with one, only much jollier." "Yes," his mother said smiling; "and I shouldn't be surprised if you wanted to throw sticks into the water for her to fetch them out, and to be taking her out for a night's fishing, and be constantly bringing her home splashed with that nasty red mud from head to foot. You would be a nice playmate for a little girl, Jim. Perhaps it is that special advantage that the sergeant had in his mind's eye, when he was so anxious to put her with me." James laughed. "I would see that she didn't come to any harm, anyhow, you know; and, after all, I suppose it was my picking her out of the sea that had something to do with his first thinking of putting her with you." "I suppose it had, Jim," she said more seriously. "But what do you think, my boy? You know there are disadvantages in it. There will be a good deal of talk about my taking this showman's grandchild, and some of the farmers' wives won't like it." "Then let them dislike it," James said indignantly. "The child is as good as their daughters, any day. Why, I noticed her in church looking like a little lady. There was not a child there to compare to her." "Yes, I have noticed her myself," Mrs. Walsham said. "She is a singularly pretty and graceful child; but it will certainly cause remark." "Well, mother, you can easily say, what is really the fact, that you naturally felt an interest in her because I picked her out of the water. Besides, if people make remarks they will soon be tired of that; and if not, I can get into some scrape or other and give them something else to talk about." Accordingly, when Sergeant Wilks called on Monday morning for his answer, Mrs. Walsham told him that she had decided to accept his offer. "You are aware how I am placed," she said, "and that I cannot give her the care and time which I could wish, and which she ought to have for such a liberal payment as you propose; but you know that beforehand, and you see that for two years' payments I could not sacrifice my school connection, which I should have to do if I gave her the time I should wish." "I understand, madam," he said, "and I am grateful to you for consenting to take her. She is getting too old now to wander about with me, and since the narrow escape she had, last time I was here, I have felt anxious whenever she was out of my sight. It would not suit me to put her in a farm house. I want her to learn to speak nicely, and I have done my best to teach her; but if she went to a farm house she would be picking up all sorts of country words, and I want her to talk like a little lady. "So that is settled, ma'm. I am going on to Exeter from here, and shall get her a stock of clothes there, and will bring her back next Saturday. Will it suit you to take her then?" Mrs. Walsham said that would suit very well; and an hour later the sergeant set out from Sidmouth with his box, Aggie trotting alongside, talking continuously. "But why am I to stop with that lady, grampa, and not to go about with you any more? I sha'n't like it. I like going about, though I get so tired sometimes when you are showing the pictures; and I like being with you. It isn't 'cause I have been naughty, is it? 'Cause I fell out of the boat into the water? I won't never get into a boat again, and I didn't mean to fall out, you know." "No, Aggie, it's not that," the sergeant said. "You are always a good girl--at least, not always, because sometimes you get into passions, you know. Still, altogether you are a good little girl. Still, you see, you can't always be going about the country with me." "But why not, grampa?" "Well, my dear, because great girls can't go about the country like men. It wouldn't be right and proper they should." "Why shouldn't it be, grampa?" the child persisted. "Well, Aggie, I can't exactly explain to you why, but so it is. Men and boys have to work. They go about in ships, or as soldiers to fight for their country, just as I did. Girls and women have to stop at home, and keep house, and nurse babies, and that sort of thing. God made man to be hard and rough, and to work and go about. He made woman gentle and soft, to stop at home and make things comfortable." Aggie meditated for some distance, in silence, upon this view of the case. "But I have seen women working in the fields, grampa, and some of them didn't seem very soft and gentle." "No, Aggie, things don't always go just as they ought to do; and you see, when people are poor, and men can't earn enough wages, then their wives and daughters have to help; and then, you see, they get rough, more like men, because they are not doing their proper work. But I want you to grow up soft and gentle, and so, for a time, I want you to live with that lady with the nice boy who pulled you out of the water, and they will make you very happy, and I shall come and see you sometime." "I like him," the child said with a nod; "but I would rather be with you, you know." "And the lady will teach you to read, Aggie. You have learned your letters, you know." Aggie shook her head, to show that this part of the programme was not particularly to her liking. "Do you think the boy will play with me, grampa?" "I daresay he will, Aggie, when you are very good; and you must never forget, you know, that he saved your life. Just think how unhappy I should be, if he had not got you out of the water." "The water was cold and nasty," Aggie said, "and it seemed so warm and nice to my hands. Aggie won't go near the water any more. Of course, if the boy is with me I can go, because he won't let me tumble in. "Shall I get into the basket now, grampa? I is tired." "Oh, nonsense, little woman! you have not walked half a mile yet. Anyhow, you must trot along until you get to the top of this hill, then you shall have a lift for a bit." And so, with the child sometimes walking and sometimes riding, sometimes asleep in her basket and sometimes chatting merrily to her grandfather, the pair made their way across the country towards Exeter. There was no little talk in Sidmouth when, on the following Sunday, the showman's grandchild appeared in Mrs. Walsham's pew in church, and it became known that she had become an inmate of her house. It was generally considered that Mrs. Walsham had let herself down greatly by taking the showman's grandchild, and one or two of the mothers of her pupils talked about taking them away. One or two, indeed, called upon her to remonstrate personally, but they gained nothing by the step. "I do not understand what you mean," she said quietly, "by saying that the child is not fit to associate with my other pupils. She is singularly gentle and taking in her manner. She expresses herself better than any child of her own age in Sidmouth, so far as I know. There are few so neatly and prettily dressed. What is there to object to? Her grandfather has been a sergeant in the army. He bears a good character, and is liked wherever he goes. I do not consider that James or myself are, in any way, demeaned by sitting down to meals with the child, who, indeed, behaves as prettily and nicely as one could wish; and I certainly do not see that any of my pupils can be injuriously affected by the fact that, for an hour or two in the day, she learns her lessons in the same room with them. Had I thought that they would be, I should not have received her. I shall, of course, be sorry if any of my pupils are taken away, but as I have several girls only waiting for vacancies, it would make no difference to me pecuniarily." And so it happened that Mrs. Walsham lost none of her pupils, and in a short time the wonder died out. Indeed, the child herself was so pretty, and taking in her ways, that it was impossible to make any objection to her personally. Mrs. Walsham had been struck by the self command which she showed at parting with her grandfather. Her eyes were full of tears, her lip quivered, and she could scarcely speak; but there was no loud wailing, no passionate outburst. Her grandfather had impressed upon her that the parting was for her own good, and child though she was, she felt how great a sacrifice he was making in parting with her, and although she could not keep the tears from streaming down her cheeks, or silence her sobs as she bade him goodbye, she tried hard to suppress her grief. The pain of parting was, indeed, fully as great to Sergeant Wilks as to his granddaughter; and it was with a very husky voice that he bade her goodbye, and then, putting her into Mrs. Walsham's arms, walked hastily away. Aggie was soon at home. She and James very quickly became allies, and the boy was ever ready to amuse her, often giving up his own plans to take her for a walk to pick flowers in the hedgerow, or to sail a tiny boat for her in the pools left as the sea retired. Mrs. Walsham found, to her surprise, that the child gave little trouble. She was quiet and painstaking during the half hours in the morning and afternoon when she was in the school room, while at mealtimes her prattle and talk amused both mother and son, and altogether she made the house brighter and happier than it was before. In two months the sergeant came round again. He did not bring his box with him, having left it at his last halting place; telling James, who happened to meet him as he came into Sidmouth, that he did not mean to bring his show there again. "It will be better for the child," he explained. "She has done with the peep show now, and I do not want her to be any longer associated with it." Aggie was delighted to see him, and sprang into his arms, with a scream of joy, as he entered. After a few minutes' talk, Mrs. Walsham suggested that she should put on her hat and go for a walk with him, and, in high contentment, the child trotted off, holding her grandfather's hand. Turning to the left, the sergeant took the path up the hill, and when he reached the top, sat down on the short turf, with Aggie nestling up against him. "So you are quite well and happy, Aggie?" he asked. "Quite well, grampa, and very happy; but I do wish so much that you were here. Oh. it would be so nice to have you to go out with every day!" "I am afraid that cannot be managed, Aggie. I have been busy so long that I could not settle down quietly here. Besides, I must live, you know." "But wouldn't people give you money for the show if you lived here, grampa? You always got money here the same as other places." "Yes, my dear, but I could not get fresh pictures every day, and should soon tire them by showing the old house." "But you are sorry sometimes, grampa, not to have me with you?" "Yes, Aggie, very sorry. I miss you terribly sometimes, and I am always thinking about you." "Then why don't you take me away again, grampa?" "Because, as I told you, Aggie, I want you to learn to read, and to grow up quite a little lady." "Does reading make one a lady, grampa?" "No, Aggie, not by itself, but with other things." "And when I am quite grown up and big, and know how to read nicely, shall I be able to go with you again?" "We will see about that, Aggie, when the time comes. There is plenty of time yet to think about that." "But I am getting on very fast, grampa, and the lady says I am a good girl. So it won't be such a very long time before I can leave." "It will be some time, yet. You have only got to read little words yet, but there are lots of long words which you will come to presently. But Mrs. Walsham tells me that you are getting on nicely, and that you are a very good girl, which pleases me very much; and when I am walking along with my box, I shall like to be able to think of you as being quite comfortable and happy." "And I go walks with Jim, grampa, and Jim has made me a boat, and he says someday, when it is very fine and quiet, he will take me out in a big boat, like that boat, you know; and he is going to ask you if he may, for the lady said I must not go out with him till he has asked you. And he said he won't let me tumble over, and I am going to sit quite, quite still." "Yes, Aggie, I don't see any harm in your going out with him. I am sure he will only take you when it is fine, and he will look after you well. You like him, don't you?" "Oh! I do, grampa; and you know, it was him who got me out of the water, else I should never have come out, and never have seen grampa again; and he has made me a boat. Oh! yes, I do like him!" "That's right, my dear; always stick to those who are good to you." A few days after this, as James was sailing the toy boat, for Aggie's amusement, in a pool, a boy sauntered up. He was somewhat taller than James Walsham, and at least two years older. He was well dressed, and James knew him as the nephew and heir of the squire. It was not often that Richard Horton came down into the village. He was accustomed to be treated with a good deal of deference at the Hall, and to order servants and grooms about pretty much as he chose, and the indifference with which the fisher boys regarded him offended him greatly. He was a spoilt boy. His uncle had a resident tutor for him, but the selection had been a bad one. The library was large and good, the tutor fond of reading, and he was content to let the boy learn as little as he chose, providing that he did not trouble him. As to any instruction beyond books, he never thought of giving it. The squire never interfered. He was a silent and disappointed man. He attended to his duties as a magistrate, and to the management of his estate, but seldom went beyond the lodge gates. He took his meals by himself, and often did not see his nephew for a week together, and had no idea but that he was pursuing his studies regularly with his tutor. Thus, the character of Richard Horton formed itself unchecked. At the best it was a bad one, but under other circumstances it might have been improved. Up to the age of ten, he had lived in London with his father and mother, the latter a sister of the squire, who, having married beneath her, to the indignation of Mr. Linthorne, he had never seen her afterwards. Four years before the story begins, she had received a letter from him, saying that, as her eldest son was now his heir, he wished him to come and live with him, and be prepared to take his place. The Hortons, who had a numerous family, at once accepted the offer, and Richard, hearing that he was going to a grand house, and would no doubt have a pony and all sorts of nice things, left his father and mother without a tear. He was essentially selfish. He was vain of his good looks, which were certainly striking; and with his changed fortunes he became arrogant, and, as the squire's servants said, hateful; and yet the change had brought him less pleasure than he expected. It was true that he had the pony, that he was not obliged to trouble himself with lessons, that he was an important person at the "Hall;" but he had no playfellows, no one to admire his grandeur, and the days often passed heavily, and there was a look of discontent and peevishness upon his handsome face. Perhaps the reason why he so seldom came down into Sidmouth, was not only because the fisher boys were not sufficiently impressed with his importance, but because they looked so much happier and more contented than he felt, in spite of his numerous advantages. On this day he was in a particularly bad temper. He had lamed his pony the day before, by riding it furiously over a bad road after it had cast a shoe. The gardener had objected to his picking more than half a dozen peaches which had just come into perfection, and had threatened to appeal to the squire. Altogether, he was out of sorts, and had walked down to the sea with a vague hope that something might turn up to amuse him. He stood for some little time watching James sail the boat, and then strode down to the edge of the pool. The boat was a model of a smack, with brown sails. James had taken a good deal of pains with it, and it was an excellent model. Presently, in crossing, she stuck in a shallow some twelve feet from the edge. The intervening stretch of water was a foot deep. James picked up some small stones and threw them close to her, that the tiny wave they made might float her off. He tried several times without success. "What's the use of such little stones as that?" Richard said roughly. "You will never get her off like that;" and picking up one as large as his fist, he threw it with some force. It struck the mast, and broke it asunder, and knocked the boat on to her side. James Walsham uttered an angry exclamation. "You are a bad boy," Aggie said passionately. "You are a bad boy to break my boat;" and she burst into tears. "I didn't mean to do it, you little fool!" Richard said angrily, vexed more at his own clumsiness than at the damage it had caused. "What are you making such a beastly noise about?" and he gave her a push. It was not a hard one, but the ground was slippery, and the child's foot slipped, and she fell at the edge of the pool, her dress going partly into the water. At the same instant, Richard reeled, and almost fell beside her, from a heavy blow between the eyes from James's fist. "You insolent blackguard!" he exclaimed furiously, "I will pay you for this;" and he rushed at James. The combat was not a long one. Hard work at rowing and sailing had strengthened Jim Walsham's muscles, and more than balanced the advantage in height and age of his adversary. He had had, too, more than one fight in his time, and after the first sudden burst of passion, caused by the overthrow of Aggie, he fought coolly and steadily, while Richard rained his blows wildly, without attempting to guard his face. The child, on regaining her feet, ran crying loudly towards the beach, making for two fishermen who were engaged in mending a net some distance away; but before she could reach them to beg for aid for her champion, the fight was over, terminating by a heavy right-handed hit from James, which landed Richard Horton on his back in the pool. James stood quietly awaiting a renewal of the conflict when he arose, but Richard had had enough of it. One of his eyes was already puffed and red, his nose bleeding, and his lip cut. His clothes were soaked from head to foot, and smeared with the red mud. "I will pay you out for this, you see if I don't," Richard gasped hoarsely. "What! have you had enough of it?" James said scornfully. "I thought you weren't any good. A fellow who would bully a little girl is sure to be a coward." Richard moved as if he would renew the fight, but he thought better of it, and with a furious exclamation hurried away towards the Hall. James, without paying any further heed to him, waded after the boat, and having recovered it, walked off towards the child, who, on seeing his opponent had moved off, was running down to meet him. "Here is the boat, Aggie," he said. "There is no great harm done, only the mast and yard broken. I can easily put you in fresh ones;" but the child paid no attention to the boat. "He is a wicked bad boy, Jim; and did he hurt you?" "Oh, no, he didn't hurt me, Aggie, at least nothing to speak of. I hurt him a good deal more. I paid him out well for breaking your boat, and pushing you down, the cowardly brute!" "Only look, Jim," she said, holding out her frock. "What will she say?" James laughed. "Mother won't say anything," he said. "She is accustomed to my coming in all muddy." "But she said 'Keep your frock clean,' and it's not clean," Aggie said in dismay. "Yes, but that is not your fault, little one. I will make it all right with her, don't you fret. Come on, we had better go home and change it as soon as possible." They passed close by the two fishermen on their way. "You gave it to the young squire finely, Master Walsham," one of them said, "and served him right, too. We chanced to be looking at the moment, and saw it all. He is a bad un, he is, by what they say up at the Hall. I heard one of the grooms talking last night down at the 'Ship,' and a nice character he gave him. This thrashing may do him some good; and look you, Master Walsham, if he makes a complaint to the squire, and it's likely enough he will get up a fine story of how it came about--the groom said he could lie like King Pharaoh--you just send word to me, and me and Bill will go up to the squire, and tell him the truth of the matter." Mrs. Walsham felt somewhat alarmed when her son told her what had happened, for the squire was a great man at Sidmouth, a magistrate, and the owner of the greater part of the place as well as of the land around it; and although Mrs. Walsham did not hold the same exaggerated opinion of his powers as did the majority of his neighbours, who would scarcely have dreamt of opposing it, had the squire ordered anyone to be hung and quartered, still she felt that it was a somewhat terrible thing that her son should have thrashed the nephew and heir of the great man. In the evening there was a knock at the door, and the little maid came in with eyes wide open with alarm, for she had heard of the afternoon's battle, to say that the constable wished to speak to Mrs. Walsham. "Servant, ma'am," he said as he entered. "I am sorry to be here on an unpleasant business; but I have got to say as the squire wishes to see Master Walsham in the justice room at ten o'clock, on a charge of 'salt and battery. "Don't you be afeard ma'am," he went on confidentially. "I don't think as anything is going to be done to him. I ain't got no warrant, and so I don't look upon it as regular business. I expects it will be just a blowing up. It will be just the squire, and not the magistrate, I takes it. He told me to have him up there at ten, but as he said nothing about custody, I thought I would do it my own way and come to you quiet like; so if you say as Master Walsham shall be up there at ten o'clock, I'll just take your word for it and won't come to fetch him. The doctor was allus very good to me and my missus, and I shouldn't like to be walking through Sidmouth with my hand on his son's collar." "Thank you, Hobson," Mrs. Walsham said quietly. "You can rely upon it my son shall be there punctually. He has nothing to be afraid or ashamed of." Full of rage as Richard Horton had been, as he started for home, he would never have brought the matter before the squire on his own account. His case was too weak, and he had been thrashed by a boy younger than himself. Thus, he would have probably chosen some other way of taking his vengeance; but it happened that, just as he arrived home, he met his tutor coming out. The latter was astounded at Richard's appearance. His eyes were already puffed so much that he could scarcely see out of them, his lips were cut and swollen, his shirt stained with blood, his clothes drenched and plastered with red mud. "Why, what on earth has happened, Richard?" Richard had already determined upon his version of the story. "A brute of a boy knocked me down into the water," he said, "and then knocked me about till he almost killed me." "But what made him assault you in this outrageous manner?" his tutor asked. "Surely all the boys about here must know you by sight; and how one of them would dare to strike you I cannot conceive." "I know the fellow," Richard said angrily. "He is the son of that doctor fellow who died two years ago." "But what made him do it?" the tutor repeated. "He was sailing his boat, and it got stuck, and he threw in some stones to get it off; and I helped him, and I happened to hit the mast of his beastly boat, and then he flew at me like a tiger, and that's all." "Well, it seems to be a monstrous assault, Richard, and you must speak to the squire about it." "Oh, no, I sha'n't," Richard said hastily. "I don't want any row about it, and I will pay him off some other way. I could lick him easy enough if it had been a fair fight, only he knocked me down before I was on my guard. No, I sha'n't say anything about it." But Richard's tutor, on thinking the matter over, determined to speak to the squire. Only the evening before, Mr. Linthorne had surprised him by asking him several questions as to Richard's progress and conduct, and had said something about examining him himself, to see how he was getting on. This had caused Mr. Robertson no little alarm, for he knew that even the most superficial questioning would betray the extent of Richard's ignorance, and he had resolved that, henceforth, he would endeavour to assert his authority, and to insist upon Richard's devoting a certain portion of each day, regularly, to study. Should the squire meet the boy anywhere about the house, he must at once notice the condition of his face; and even if he did not meet him, he could not fail to notice it on Sunday, when he sat beside him in the pew. It would be better, therefore, that he should at once report the matter to him. Without saying a word to Richard of his intentions, he therefore went to the squire's study, and told him what had taken place, as he had learned it from Richard. The squire listened silently. "Very well, Mr. Robertson. You were quite right to tell me about it. Of course, I cannot suffer my nephew to be treated in this manner. At the same time, I am sorry that it was Walsham's son. I don't know anything about the boy, and should not know him even by sight, but I had an esteem for his father, who was a hard-working man, and, I believe, clever. He used to attend here whenever any of the servants were ill, and I had intended to do something for the boy. I am sorry he has turned out so badly. However, I will have him up here and speak to him. This sort of thing cannot be permitted." And accordingly, orders were given to the constable. When, in the evening, Mr. Robertson informed Richard what he had done, the boy flew into a terrible passion, and abused his tutor with a violence of language which shocked and astonished him, and opened his eyes to his own culpability, in allowing him to go on his way unchecked. He in vain endeavoured to silence the furious lad. He had been so long without exercising any authority, that he had now no authority to exercise, and, after an angry scene, Richard flung himself out of the room, and left his tutor in a state bordering on consternation.	{ "id": "17766" }
3	: The Justice Room.	Richard's feelings were not to be envied, as he lay awake that night, thinking over what had taken place in the morning. It had never, for a moment, entered his mind that his tutor would repeat his statement to the squire, and he would have given a good deal if he had not made it. However, there was nothing for him now but to stick to the story, and he felt but little doubt of the result. He had no idea that any, but the actors in it, had witnessed the scene by the pool, and he felt confident that his uncle would, as a matter of course, take his word in preference to that of this boy, who would naturally tell lies to screen himself. Of course, the child was there, but no one would mind what a baby like that said. Still, it was a nuisance, and he gnashed his teeth with rage at the interference of his tutor in the matter. "I will get rid of him, somehow, before long," he said. "I will pay him out for his meddling, as sure as my name's Richard Horton. I will get him out of this before three months are gone." The next morning at breakfast, Richard received a message from the squire that he was to be present at ten o'clock in the justice room, and accordingly, at that hour he presented himself there with a confident air, but with an inward feeling of misgiving. The squire was sitting at his table, with his clerk beside him. Mr. Robertson was in a chair a short distance off. The constable was standing by the side of James Walsham, at the other end of the room. Mr. Linthorne nodded to his nephew. "I wish you to repeat the story which you told Mr. Robertson yesterday." Richard had thought over whether it would be better to soften his story, but as it had already been told to the squire, he had concluded that there would be more danger in contradicting his first version than in sticking to it. Accordingly, he repeated his story almost word for word as he had told it to Mr. Robertson. "What have you to say to this, James Walsham?" the squire asked. "This is a serious charge, that you without any provocation assaulted and maltreated my nephew." "I say it is all a lie, sir," James said fearlessly. The squire uttered a short exclamation of surprise and anger. He had been, at first, favourably impressed with the appearance of the young prisoner, though he had been surprised at seeing that he was younger than his nephew, for he had expected to see a much older boy. "That is not the way to speak, sir," he said sternly, while the constable pressed a warning hand on James's shoulder. "Well, sir, it's not true then," the boy said. "It's all false from beginning to end, except that I did strike him first; but I struck him, not because he had thrown a great stone and broken my boat, but because he pushed a little girl who was with me down into the water." "She slipped down. I never pushed her," Richard broke in. "Hold your tongue, sir," the squire said sternly. "You have given your evidence. I have now to hear what the accused has to say. "Now, tell your story." James now gave his version of the affair. When he had ended, Mr. Linthorne said gravely, "Have you any witnesses to call?" "Yes, sir, there are two fishermen outside who saw it." "Bring them in," the magistrate said to the constable. Not a word was spoken in the justice room until the constable returned. As James had told his story, the magistrate had listened with disbelief. It had not occurred to him that his nephew could have told a lie, and he wondered at the calmness with which this boy told his story. Why, were it true, Richard was a coward as well as a liar, for with his superior age and height, he should have been able to thrash this boy in a fair fight; yet James's face had not a mark, while his nephew's showed how severely he had been punished. But his eye fell upon Richard when James said that he had witnesses. He saw an unmistakable look of terror come over his face, and the bitter conviction flashed across him that James's story was the true one. "There is no occasion to give him the book, Hobson," he said, as the constable was about to hand the Testament to one of the fishermen. "This is a private investigation, not a formal magisterial sitting, and there is no occasion, at this stage, to take any evidence on oath." "What is your name, my man?" "John Mullens, your honour." "Well, just tell me, Mullens, what you know about this business." "I was a-mending my nets, yer honour, along with Simon Harte, and young Master Walsham was a-sailing his boat in a pool, along with the little gal as lives at his mother's." "How far were you from the spot where he was?" the squire asked. "Two hundred yards or so, I should say," the fisherman replied. "We was working behind a boat, but we could see over it well enough. Presently we saw Master Horton come down, and stand alongside the others. "I said to Simon, 'He is a good-looking young fellow, is the squire's nephew,'" and the fisherman's eye twinkled with a grim humour, as he glanced at Richard's swollen face. "The boat got stuck, and Master Walsham threw something in close to it to get it off. Then I see Master Horton stoop, and pick up a chunk of stone, and chuck it hard; and it hit the boat and knocked it over. I see the little girl turn round and say something to Master Horton, and then she put her apron up to her face and began to cry. He gave her a sort of shove, and she tumbled down into the edge of the pool. "I says to Simon, 'What a shame!' but afore the words was out of my mouth, Master Walsham he hits him, and hits him hard, too. Then there was a fight, but Master Horton, he hadn't a chance with James, who gave him as sound a licking as ever you see'd, and ending with knocking him backwards into the pool. Then he gets up and shakes his fist at James, and then goes off as hard as he could. That's all I know about it." "It's a wicked lie," Richard burst out. "They have made it up between them. There was nobody there." "Hold your tongue, sir, I tell you," the squire said, so sternly that Richard, who had risen from his seat, shrank back again and remained silent; while Simon Harte gave his evidence, which was almost identical with that of the other fisherman. "Have you any other witnesses?" the magistrate asked James. "Only the little girl, sir, but I did not bring her up. She is so little, I thought it was better she should not come, but I can send for her if you wish it." "It is not necessary," Mr. Linthorne said. "I have heard quite sufficient. The manner in which you and these fishermen have given your evidence convinces me that you are speaking the truth, and I am sorry that you should have been placed in this position. You will understand that this is not a formal court, and therefore that there is no question of discharging you. I can only say that, having heard the story of what took place at this fight between you and my nephew, I am convinced that you did what any other boy of spirit would have done, under the same circumstances, and that the punishment which you administered to him was thoroughly deserved. "Good morning!" James Walsham and his witnesses left the room. Mr. Linthorne rose, and saying to his nephew, "Follow me, sir," went to his study. Without saying a word as to what had passed, he took down some books from the shelves, and proceeded to examine Richard in them. A few minutes sufficed to show that the boy was almost absolutely ignorant of Latin, while a few questions in geography and history showed that he was equally deficient in these also. "That will do," the squire said. "Go up to your room, and remain there until I send for you." An hour after this a dog cart came round to the door. Mr. Robertson took his place in it with his trunk, and was driven away to Exeter, never to return. For two days Richard remained a prisoner in his room. His meals were brought up to him, but the servant who came with them answered no questions, telling him that the squire's orders were that he was not to hold any conversation with him. There was, indeed, a deep pleasure among the servants at the Hall, at the knowledge that Richard Horton was in disgrace. The exact circumstances of the affair were unknown, for the fishermen had not been present when Richard had told his story, and Mrs. Walsham, who was much shocked when James told her the circumstances, had impressed upon him that it was better to say nothing more about it. "You are clear in the matter, Jim, and that is enough for you. The squire will, no doubt, punish his nephew for the wicked lies he has told. Some day, you know, the boy will be master here. Don't let us set everyone against him by telling this disgraceful story." So, beyond the fact that there had been a fight between James Walsham and the squire's nephew, and that Richard Horton had been thrashed, and that the squire himself had said that it served him right, Sidmouth knew nothing of what had taken place in the justice room. Mr. Linthorne's first impulse had been to send his nephew at once back to his parents, with the message that he would have nothing more to do with him; but, though he had the reputation of being a stern man, the squire was a very kind-hearted one. He was shocked to find that the boy was a liar, and that, to shield himself, he had invented this falsehood against his opponent; but upon reflection, he acknowledged that he himself had been to blame in the matter. He had taken the boy into his house, had assigned to him the position of his heir, and had paid no further attention to him. Unfortunately, the man he had selected as his tutor had proved false to the trust. The boy had been permitted to run wild, his head was turned with the change in his prospects, his faults had grown unchecked. It was to be said for him that he had not intended, in the first place, to bring his opponent into disgrace by making this false accusation against him, for his tutor had acknowledged that he had said he did not intend to tell him, or to take any step in the matter, and his position of accuser had been, to some extent, forced upon him by the necessity of his confirming the tale, which he had told to account for his being thrashed by a boy smaller than himself. Yes, it would be unfair upon the boy utterly to cast him off for this first offence. He would give him one more trial. The result of the squire's reflection was that, on the third day of his imprisonment, Richard was sent for to the study. The squire did not motion to him to sit down, and he remained standing with, as the squire said to himself, a hang-dog look upon his face. "I have been thinking over this matter quietly, Richard, for I did not wish to come to any hasty conclusion. My first impulse was to pack you off home, and have no more to do with you, but I have thought better of it. Mean and despicable as your conduct has been, I take some blame to myself, for not having seen that your tutor did his duty by you. Therefore, I have resolved to give you another chance, but not here. I could not bear to have a boy, who has proved himself a despicable liar, about me; but I will try and think that this was a first offence, and that the lesson which it has taught you may influence all your future life, and that you may yet grow up an honourable man. "But you will remember that, henceforth, you are on trial, and that the position in which you will stand by my will, will depend solely and entirely on your own conduct. If you prove, by that, that this lesson has had its effect, that you deeply repent of your conduct, and are resolved to do your best to be henceforth straight, honourable, and true, you will, at my death, occupy the position I have intended for you. If not, not one single penny of my money will you get. I am going to put you in a school where you will be looked strictly after, and where you will have every chance of retrieving yourself. I have just written to a friend of mine, a post captain in his majesty's service, asking him to receive you as a midshipman. I have told him frankly that you have been somewhat over indulged, and that the discipline of the sea life will be of great benefit to you, and have requested him to keep a tight hand over you, and let me know occasionally how you are going on. I have told him that your position as my heir will, to a very large extent, depend upon his reports, and have asked him, in the name of our old friendship, to be perfectly frank and open in them with me. I have said 'he is my eldest nephew, but I have others who will take his place, if he is unworthy of the position, and although I should be sorry if he should be found wanting, I will commit the interests of all the tenants and people on my estate to no one who is not, in every respect, an honourable gentleman.' "That will do, sir. You need not remain longer in your room, but you will not leave the grounds. My friend's ship is at Portsmouth at present, and doubtless I shall receive an answer in the course of a few days. Until then, the less we see each other, the more pleasant for us both." There were few more miserable boys in England than Richard Horton, during the week which elapsed before the answer to the squire's letter was received. It cannot be said that, in the true sense of the word, he was sorry for his fault. He was furious with himself, not because he had lied, but because of the consequences of the lie. A thousand times he called himself a fool for having imperilled his position, and risked being sent back again to the dingy house in London, merely to excuse himself for being thrashed by a boy smaller than himself. Mad with his folly, not in having invented the story, but in having neglected to look round, to assure himself that there were no witnesses who would contradict it, he wandered disconsolate about the gardens and park, cursing what he called his fortune. It was an additional sting to his humiliation, that he knew every servant in and about the house rejoiced at his discomfiture, and he imagined that there was a veiled smile of satisfaction, at his bruised visage and his notorious disgrace with the squire, on the face of every man he met outside, and of every woman who passed him in the house. During the whole week he did not venture near the stables, for there he knew that he had rendered himself specially obnoxious, and there was nothing for him to do but to saunter listlessly about the garden, until the day arrived that the letter came granting the squire's request, and begging that he might be sent off at once, as the vessel would probably put to sea in a few days. "Now, Richard," the squire said that evening to him, in a kinder voice than he had used on the last occasion, "you understand exactly how we stand towards each other. That being so, I do not wish to maintain our present uncomfortable relations. You have had your punishment, and, unless I hear to the contrary, I shall assume that the punishment has had its effect. When you return from sea, after your first voyage, you will come home here as if nothing had happened, and this business need never be alluded to between us. If you turn out as I have hitherto believed you to be, I shall receive you as warmly as if my opinion of you had never been shaken. "I have requested Captain Sinclair to let me know what is the average allowance that the midshipmen receive from their parents, and shall see that you have as much as your messmates. I have also asked him to kindly allow one of his officers to order you a proper outfit in all respects, and to have the bill sent in to me. So now, my boy, you will have a fresh and a fair start, and I trust that you will turn out everything that I can wish." "I will try, sir. I will indeed," Richard said earnestly; and he spoke from his heart, for the inheritance was very dear to him, and it would be a terrible thing indeed to forfeit it. For two years after Richard Horton's departure, things went on quietly at Sidmouth. James Walsham continued to make a pet and a playmate of little Aggie. Her out-of-door life had made her strong and sturdy, and she was able to accompany him in all his rambles, while, when he was at work at home preparing fishing lines, making boats, or otherwise amusing himself, she was content to sit hours quietly beside him, chattering incessantly, and quite content with an occasional brief answer to the questions. When he was studying, she too would work at her lessons; and however much she might be puzzled over these, she would never disturb him by asking him questions when so engaged. She was an intelligent child, and the hour's lesson, morning and afternoon, soon grew into two. She was eager to learn, and rapidly gained ground on Mrs. Walsham's older pupils. During the two years, that lady never had cause to regret that she had yielded to the sergeant's entreaties. Aggie was no trouble in the house, which she brightened with her childish laughter and merry talk; and her companionship, James's mother could not but think, did the boy much good. It softened his manner, and, although he still often went out with the fishermen, he was no longer thrown entirely for companionship upon the boys on the beach. The sergeant came and went, seldom being more than two months without paying a visit to Sidmouth. The child was always delighted to see her grandfather, and James took to him greatly, and liked nothing better than to stroll up with him to a sheltered spot on the hillside, where he would throw himself down on the grass, while the sergeant smoked his pipe and told him stories of his travels and adventures, and Aggie ran about looking for wildflowers, or occasionally sat down, for a while, to listen also. The squire lived his usual lonely life up at the Hall. The absence of his nephew, whose ship had sailed for a foreign station, was a relief rather than otherwise to him. It had, from the first, been a painful effort to him to regard this boy as his heir, and he had only done it when heartsick from a long and fruitless search for one who would have been nearer and dearer to him. Nor had he ever taken to the lad personally. The squire felt that there was not the ring of true metal in him. The careless way in which he spoke of his parents showed a want of heart; and although his uncle was ignorant how much the boy made himself disliked in the household, he was conscious, himself, of a certain antipathy for him, which led him to see as little of him as possible. The two years, for which the sergeant had placed his grandchild with Mrs. Walsham, came to an end. That he did not intend to continue the arrangement, she judged from something he said on the occasion of his last visit, two months before the time was up, but he gave no hint as to what he intended to do with her. In those weeks Mrs. Walsham frequently thought the matter over. That the sergeant had plans for the child she could hardly doubt. The child herself had told her that she knew of no other relations than her grandfather, and yet he could hardly intend to take her about with him, after placing her for two years in a comfortable home. She was but seven years old now--far too young to go out into a place as servant girl in a farm house. She doubted not that the sergeant had expended the whole of his savings, and she thought him foolish in not having kept her with him for some little time longer, or, if he could not do that, he might have placed her with some honest people, who would have kept her for the sum he had paid until she was old enough to take a place as a nurse girl. And yet, while she argued thus, Mrs. Walsham felt that the old showman had not acted without weighing the whole matter. There must be something in it which she did not understand. In fact, he had said so when he placed the child with her. As the time approached, she became more worried at the thought of Aggie leaving her. The little one had wound herself very closely round her heart. The expense of keeping her was small indeed, the cost of her food next to nothing; while the extra girl, whom Mrs. Walsham had taken on when she first came, had been retained but a very short time, James's constant companionship with her rendering the keeping of a nurse altogether unnecessary. At last she made up her mind that she would offer to keep her on without pay. She and James would miss her companionship sorely, and it could not be considered an extravagance, since the money she had received for her would pay for the cost of her keep for years to come. When Mrs. Walsham's mind was once made up, her only fear was that these mysterious plans of the sergeant would not allow him to leave Aggie with her. Punctual to the day, Sergeant Wilks arrived, and after a little talk in the parlour, as usual, with James and Aggie present, he formally requested the favour of a conversation with Mrs. Walsham alone. "Take Aggie for a walk, James. Do not stay out above three quarters of an hour, as your tea will be ready for you then." "You must have wondered, ma'am, a good deal," the sergeant began when they were alone, "why I, who get my living by travelling the country with a peep show, wished to place my grandchild in a position above her, and to have her taught to be a little lady. It is time now that I should tell you. Aggie is my granddaughter, but she is the granddaughter, too, of Squire Linthorne up at the Hall." "Bless me!" Mrs. Walsham ejaculated, too astonished for any further expression of her feelings. "Yes, ma'am, she is the daughter of the squire's son Herbert, who married my daughter Cissie." "Dear me, dear me," Mrs. Walsham said, "what an extraordinary thing! Of course I remember Herbert Linthorne, a handsome, pleasant young fellow. He was on bad terms, as everyone heard, eight years ago, with his father, because he married somebody beneath--I mean somebody of whom the squire did not approve. A year afterwards, we heard that he was dead, and there was a report that his wife was dead, too, but that was only a rumour. The squire went away just at the time, and did not come back for months afterwards, and after that he was altogether changed. Before, he had been one of the most popular men in this part of the country, but now he shut himself up, gave up all his acquaintances, and never went outside the park gates except to come down to church. I remember it gave us quite a shock when we saw him for the first time--he seemed to have grown an old man all at once. Everyone said that the death of his son had broken his heart. "And Aggie is his granddaughter! Well, well, you have astonished me. But why did you not tell me before?" "There were a good many reasons, ma'am. I thought, in the first place, you might refuse me, if you knew, for it might do you harm. The squire is a vindictive man, and he is landlord of your house; and if he came to know that you had knowingly taken in his granddaughter, there was no saying how he might have viewed it. Then, if you had known it, you might have thought you ought to keep her in, and not let her run about the country with your son; and altogether, it would not have been so comfortable for you or her. I chose to put her at Sidmouth because I wanted to come here often, to hear how the squire was going on; for if he had been taken ill I should have told him sooner than I intended." "But why did you not tell him before?" Mrs. Walsham asked. "Just selfishness, ma'am. I could not bring myself to run the risk of having to give her up. She was mine as much as his, and was a hundred times more to me than she could be to him. I took her a baby from her dead mother's arms. I fed her and nursed her, taught her her first words and her first prayer. Why should I offer to give her up to him who, likely enough, would not accept the offer when it was made to him? But I always intended to make it some day. It was my duty to give her the chance at least; but I kept on putting off the day, till that Saturday when she was so nearly drowned; then I saw my duty before me." "I had, from the first, put aside a hundred pounds, to give her more of an education than I could do; but if it hadn't been for that fall into the sea, it might have been years before I carried out my plan. Then I saw it could not go on any longer. She was getting too old and too bold to sit quiet while I was showing my box. She had had a narrow escape, and who could say what might happen the next time she got into mischief? Then I bethought me that the squire was growing old, and that it was better not to put it off too long. So, ma'am, I came to you and made up my mind to put her with you." "And you had your way," Mrs. Walsham said, smiling, "though it was with some difficulty." "I expected it would be difficult, ma'am; but I made up my mind to that, and had you kept on refusing I should, as a last chance, have told you whose child she was." "But why me?" Mrs. Walsham asked. "Why were you so particularly anxious that she should come to me, of all people?" The sergeant smiled. "It's difficult to tell you, ma'am, but I had a reason." "But what was it?" Mrs. Walsham persisted. The sergeant hesitated. "You may think me an old fool, ma'am, but I will tell you what fancy came into my mind. Your son saved Aggie's life. He was twelve years old, she was five, seven years' difference." "Why, what nonsense, sergeant!" Mrs. Walsham broke in with a laugh. "You don't mean to say that fancy entered your head!" "It did, ma'am," Sergeant Wilks said gravely. "I liked the look of the boy much. He was brave and modest, and a gentleman. I spoke about him to the fishermen that night, and everyone had a good word for him; so I said to myself, 'I can't reward him for what he has done directly, but it may be that I can indirectly.' "Aggie is only a child, but she has a loving, faithful little heart, and I said to myself, 'If I throw her with this boy, who, she knows, has saved her life, for two years, she is sure to have a strong affection for him.' "Many things may happen afterwards. If the squire takes her they will be separated. He may get to care for someone, and so may she, but it's just giving him a chance. "Then, too, I thought a little about myself. I liked to fancy that, even though she would have to go from me to the squire, my little plan may yet turn out, and it would be I, not he, who had arranged for the future happiness of my little darling. I shouldn't have told you all this, ma'am; but you would have it." "I am glad you brought her to me, Sergeant Wilks, anyhow," Mrs. Walsham said, "for I love her dearly, and she has been a great pleasure to me; but what you are talking about is simply nonsense. My son is a good boy, and will, I hope, grow up an honourable gentleman like his father; but he cannot look so high as the granddaughter of Squire Linthorne." "More unequal marriages have been made than that, ma'am," the sergeant said sturdily; "but we won't say more about it. I have thought it over and over, many a hundred times, as I wheeled my box across the hills, and it don't seem to me impossible. I will agree that the squire would never say yes; but the squire may be in his grave years before Aggie comes to think about marriage. Besides, it is more than likely that he will have nothing to say to my pet. If his pride made him cast his son off, rather than acknowledge my daughter as his, it will keep him from acknowledging her daughter as his grandchild. I hope it will, with all my heart; I hope so." "In that case, Sergeant Wilks," Mrs. Walsham said, "let this be her home for the time. Before you told me your story, I had made up my mind to ask you to let her remain with me. You need feel under no obligation, for the money you have paid me is amply sufficient to pay for the expenses of what she eats for years. It will be a real pleasure for me to keep her, for she has become a part of the house, and we should miss her sorely, indeed. She is quick and intelligent, and I will teach her all I know, and can train her up to take a situation as a governess in a gentleman's family, or perhaps--" and she laughed, "your little romance might come true some day, and she can in that case stop in this home until James makes her another." "You are very kind, ma'am," the sergeant said. "Truly kind indeed; and I humbly accept your offer, except that so long as I live she shall be no expense to you. I earn more than enough for my wants, and can, at any rate, do something towards preventing her from being altogether a burden on your hands. And now, ma'am, how would you recommend me to go to work with the vindictive old man up at the Hall?" "I shouldn't have thought he was vindictive. That is not at all the character he bears." "No," the sergeant said, "I hear him spoken well of; but I have seen, in other cases, men, who have had the name of being pleasant and generous, were yet tyrants and brutes in their own family. I judge him as I found him--a hard hearted, tyrannical, vindictive father. I think I had better not see him myself. We have never met. I have never set eyes on him save here in church; but he regarded me as responsible for the folly of his son. He wrote me a violent letter, and said I had inveigled the lad into the marriage; and although I might have told him it was false, I did not answer his letter, for the mischief was done then, and I hoped he would cool down in time. "However, that is all past now; but I don't wish to see him. I was thinking of letting the child go to the Hall by herself, and drop in suddenly upon him. She is very like her father, and may possibly take his heart by storm." "Yes," Mrs. Walsham assented. "Now I know who she is, I can see the likeness strongly. Yes; I should think that that would be the best way. People often yield to a sudden impulse, who will resist if approached formally or from a distance. But have you any reason to suppose that he will not receive her? Did he refuse at first to undertake the charge of the child? Does he even know that she is alive? It may be that, all these years, he has been anxious to have her with him, and that you have been doing him injustice altogether." "I never thought of it in that light," the sergeant said, after a pause. "He never came near his son when he lay dying, never wrote a line in answer to his letters. If a man could not forgive his son when he lay dying, how could he care for a grandchild he had never seen?" "That may be so, Sergeant Wilks; but his son's death certainly broke him down terribly, and it may be that he will gladly receive his granddaughter. "But there are the young ones back again. I will think over what you have been telling me, and we can discuss it again tomorrow."	{ "id": "17766" }
4	: The Squire's Granddaughter.	The following day another council was held, and Mrs. Walsham told the sergeant that, on thinking it over, she had concluded that the best way would be to take the old butler at the Hall, who had served the family for forty-five years, into their confidence, and to ask him to arrange how best Aggie might be introduced to the squire. "I have been thinking over what you said, ma'am, and it may be that you are right, and that I have partly misjudged the squire. I hope so, for Aggie's sake, and yet I cannot help feeling sorry. I have always felt almost sure he would have nothing to say to her, and I have clung to the hope that I should not lose my little girl. I know, of course, how much better it will be for her, and have done all I could to make her so that she should be fit for it, if he took her. But it will be a wrench, ma'am. I can't help feeling it will be a wrench;" and the old soldier's voice quivered as he spoke. "It cannot be otherwise, sergeant," Mrs. Walsham said kindly. "You have been everything to each other, and though, for her good and happiness, you are ready to give her up, it is a heavy sacrifice for you to make." That afternoon, the sergeant went for a long walk alone with Aggie, and when they returned Mrs. Walsham saw, by the flushed cheeks and the swollen eyes of the child, that she had been crying. James noticed it also, and saw that she seemed depressed and quiet. He supposed that her grandfather had been telling her that he was going to take her away, for hitherto nothing had been said, in her hearing, as to the approaching termination of the stay with his mother. As they came out of church, Mrs. Walsham had waited for a moment at the door, and had told the butler at the Hall that she wished particularly to speak to him, that afternoon, if he could manage to come down. They were not strangers, for the doctor had attended John's wife in her last illness, and he had sometimes called with messages from the Hall, when the doctor was wanted there. John Petersham was astonished, indeed, when Mrs. Walsham informed him that the little girl he had seen in her pew, in church, was his master's granddaughter. "You don't say so, ma'am. You don't say as that pretty little thing is Master Herbert's child! But why didn't you say so afore? Why, I have caught myself looking at her, and wondering how it was that I seemed to know her face so well; and now, of course, I sees it. She is the picture of Master Herbert when he was little." "I couldn't say so before, John, because I only knew it myself last night. Her grandfather--that is, her other grandfather, you know--placed her with me to educate, and, as he said, to make a little lady of, two years ago; but it was only last night he told me." "Only to think of it!" the butler ejaculated. "What will the squire say?" "Yes, that is the point, John. What will the squire say? Her grandfather thinks he will have nothing to say to her." "Nothing to say to her, ma'am! Why, he will be off his head with joy. Didn't he search for her, and advertise for her, and do all he could to find her for months? It wasn't till he tried for over a year that he gave it up, and sent for Richard Horton to come to him." "Her grandfather can only judge by what he knows, John. He tells me that the son wrote to his father, over and over again, on his deathbed, and that he never came near him, or took any notice of the letters." "That's true enough, ma'am," the butler said sadly; "and it is what has pretty nigh broken the squire's heart. He was obstinate like at first, and he took me with him when he travelled about across the sea among the foreigners, and when he was at a place they called Athens, he got a fever and he was down for weeks. We came home by sea, and the winds was foul, and we made a long voyage of it, and when we got home there was letters that had been lying months and months for us, and among them was those letters of Master Herbert's. "The squire wasn't an hour in the house afore the carriage was round to the door, and we posted as hard as horses could take us right across England to Broadstairs, never stopping a minute except to change horses; and when we got there it was a month too late, and there was nothing to do but to go to the churchyard, and to see the stone under which Master Herbert and his young wife was laid. "The house where they had died was shut up. There had been a sale, and the man who was the father of Master Herbert's wife was gone, and we learned there had been a baby born, and that had gone too. The squire was like a madman, blaming himself for his son's death, and a-raving to think what must Master Herbert have thought of him, when he never answered his letters. I had a terrible time with him, and then he set to work to find the child; but, as I told you, we never did find it, or hear a word of it from that time to this, and the squire has never held up his head. He will be pretty well out of his mind with joy." "I am very glad to hear what you say, John," Mrs. Walsham said. "I could hardly fancy the squire, who always has borne such a name for kindness, being so hard that he would not listen to his dying son's entreaties." "No, ma'am. The squire was hard for a bit. Master Herbert's marriage was a sad disappointment to him. He had made up his mind he was going to do so well, and to cut such a figure in the world; but he would have come round. Lord bless you, he only meant to hold out for a bit. When he was ill at Athens, he was talking all the time about forgiving his son, and I could see how hard it had been to him to keep separated from him. On the voyage home he fidgeted ever so at the delay, and I knew that the first thing he did, when he got back, would be to write to Master Herbert and tell him to bring his wife down to the Hall. There's not a hard corner in the squire's heart. "I thank the good God for the news you have told me, ma'am; it's the best I ever heard in all my life." Mrs. Walsham now told him how the child had been brought up, and then the sergeant himself, who was waiting in the next room, was brought in; and to him John Petersham related the story of the squire's illness, the reason of the letters not reaching him for months after they had been written, and his intense sorrow and self reproach at having arrived too late, and told him of the efforts that had been made to find the child. The sergeant listened in grave silence. "I am glad it is so," he said, after a pause. "I have misjudged the squire, and I am glad of it. It will be a blow to me to lose the child. I do not pretend that it won't; but it is for her good, and I must be content. He can hardly object to my seeing her sometimes, and if I know that she is well and happy, that is all I care for; and now the sooner it's over the better. Can she come up this evening?" "Surely she can," John Petersham said. "The squire dines at five. If you will bring her up at six, I will take her in to him." And so it was arranged, and in his walk with Aggie, afterwards, the sergeant told her the history of her parents, and that Squire Linthorne was her other grandfather, and that she was to go up and see him that evening. Aggie had uttered her protest against fate. She did not wish to leave her grampa who had been so good to her, and Mrs. Walsham, and James. The description of the big house and its grandeurs, and the pleasures of a pony for herself, offered no enticement to her; and, weeping, she flung her arms round her grandfather's neck and implored him not to give her up. "I must, my dear. It is my duty. I wish to God that it were not. You know how I love you, Aggie, and how hard it is for me to part with you; but it is for your good, my darling. You mayn't see it now, but when you get older you will know it. It will not be so hard now on me, dear, nor on you, as it would have been had I given you up two years ago; but we have learned to do a little without each other." "But you will come and see me, just as you have here, won't you?" Aggie said, still weeping. "I hope so, my dear. You see, the squire is your father's father, while I am only your mother's father, and somehow the law makes him nearer to you than I am, and he will have the right to say what you must do." "I won't stay with him. I won't," Aggie said passionately, "if he won't let you come." "You must not say that, dear," the sergeant said. "We must all do our duty, even when that duty is hard to do, and your duty will be to obey the squire's orders, and to do as he tells you. I have no doubt he will be very kind, and that you will be very happy with him, and I hope he will let you see me sometimes." It was a long time before the child was at all reconciled. When her sobs began to cease, her grandfather told her what she was to do when she saw the squire. "You will remember, my dear, that I have been more fortunate than he has. I have had you all these years, and he has had no one to love or care for him. You must remember that he was not to blame, because he objected to his son marrying my daughter. They were not in the same position of life, and it was only natural that he should not like it, at first; and, as I told you, he was coming home to make them both happy, when he found it was too late. "You must think, dear, that while I have been happy all these years with you, he has been sorrowing and grieving, and you must try and love him, and make up to him for what he has suffered. I know you will not forget your old friends. You will love me whether you see me often or not; and Mrs. Walsham, who has been very kind to you; and James, you know, who saved your life." "I shall never forget anyone, grampa. I shall always love you better than anyone," the child exclaimed, throwing her arms round his neck with a fresh burst of tears. "There, there, my pet," the sergeant said soothingly. "You must not cry any more. I want you to look your best this evening, you know, and to do credit to us all. And now, I think we have settled everything, so we will be going back to tea." That evening, the squire was sitting by himself in the great dining room, occasionally sipping the glass of port, which John Petersham had poured out before he left the room. The curtains were drawn, and the candles lighted; for it was late in September, and the evenings were closing in fast; and the squire was puzzling over John Petersham's behaviour at dinner. Although the squire was not apt to observe closely what was passing around him, he had been struck with the old butler's demeanour. That something was wrong with him was clear. Usually he was the most quiet and methodical of servants, but he had blundered several times in the service. He had handed his master dishes when his plate was already supplied. He had spilled the wine in pouring it out. He had started nervously when spoken to. Mr. Linthorne even thought that he had seen tears in his eyes. Altogether, he was strangely unlike himself. Mr. Linthorne had asked him if anything was the matter, but John had, with almost unnecessary earnestness, declared there was nothing. Altogether, the squire was puzzled. With any other servant, he would have thought he had been drinking, but such a supposition, in John's case, was altogether out of the question. He could have had no bad news, so far as the squire knew, for the only children he had, had died young, and he had no near relatives or connections. It was ridiculous to suppose that John, at his age, had fallen in love. Altogether, the squire failed to suggest to himself any explanation of his old butler's conduct, and had just concluded, philosophically, by the reflection that he supposed he should know what it was sooner or later, when the door of the room quietly opened. The squire did not look up. It closed again as quietly, and then he glanced towards it. He could hardly believe his eyes. A child was standing there--a girl with soft smooth hair, and large eyes, and a sensitive mouth, with an expression fearless but appealing. Her hands were clasped before her, and she was standing in doubt whether to advance. There was something so strange, in this apparition in the lonely room, that the squire did not speak for a moment. It flashed across him, vaguely, that there was something familiar to him in the face and expression, something which sent a thrill through him; and at the same instant, without knowing why, he felt that there was a connection between the appearance of the child, and the matter he had just been thinking of--John Petersham's strange conduct. He was still looking at her, when she advanced quietly towards him. "Grandpapa," she said, "I am Aggie Linthorne." A low cry of astonishment broke from the squire. He pushed his chair back. "Can it be true?" he muttered. "Or am I dreaming?" "Yes, grandpapa," the child said, close beside him now. "I am Aggie Linthorne, and I have come to see you. If you don't think it's me, grampa said I was to give you this, and then you would know;" and she held out a miniature, on ivory, of a boy some fourteen years old; and a watch and chain. "I do not need them," the squire said, in low tones. "I see it in your face. You are Herbert's child, whom I looked for so long. "Oh! my child! my child! have you come at last?" and he drew her towards him, and kissed her passionately, while the tears streamed down his cheeks. "I couldn't come before, you know," the child said, "because I didn't know about you; and grampa, that's my other grandpapa," she nodded confidentially, "did not know you wanted me. But now he knows, he sent me to you. He told me I was to come because you were lonely. "But you can't be more lonely than he is," she said, with a quiver in her voice. "Oh! he will be lonely, now!" "But where do you come from, my dear? and how did you get here? and what have you been doing, all these years?" "Grampa brought me here," the child said. "I call him grampa, you know, because I did when I was little, and I have always kept to it; but I know, of course, it ought to be grandpapa. He brought me here, and John--at least he called him John--brought me in. And I have been living, for two years, with Mrs. Walsham down in the town, and I used to see you in church, but I did not know that you were my grandpapa." The squire, who was holding her close to him while she spoke, got up and rang the bell; and John opened the door, with a quickness that showed that he had been waiting close to it, anxiously waiting a summons. "John Petersham," the squire said, "give me your hand. This is the happiest day of my life." The two men wrung each other's hands. They had been friends ever since John Petersham, who was twelve years the senior of the two, first came to the house, a young fellow of eighteen, to assist his father, who had held the same post before him. "God be thanked, squire!" he said huskily. "God be thanked, indeed, John!" the squire rejoined, reverently. "So this was the reason, old friend, why your hand shook as you poured out my wine. How could you keep the secret from me?" "I did not know how to begin to tell you, but I was pretty nigh letting it out, and only the thought that it was better the little lady should tell you herself, as we had agreed, kept it in. Only to think, squire, after all these years! But I never quite gave her up. I always thought, somehow, as she would come just like this." "Did you, John? I gave up hope years ago. How did it come about, John?" "Mrs. Walsham told me, as I came out of church today, as she wanted to speak to me. So I went down, and she told me all about it, and then I saw him--" John hesitated at the name, for he knew that, perhaps, the only man in the world against whom his master cherished a bitter resentment, was the father of his son's wife. "It seems he never saw your advertisements, never knew as you wanted to hear anything of the child, so he took her away and kept her. He has been here, off and on, all these years. I heard tell of him, often and often, when I had been down into Sidmouth, but never dreamt as it was him. He went about the country with a box on wheels with glasses--a peep show as they calls it." The squire winced. "He is well spoken of, squire," John said, "and I am bound to say as he doesn't seem the sort of man we took him for, at all, not by no means. He did not know you wanted to have her, but he thought it his duty to give her the chance, and so he put her with Mrs. Walsham, and never told her, till yesterday, who she was. Mrs. Walsham was quite grieved at parting with her, for she says she is wonderfully quick at her lessons, and has been like a daughter with her, for the last two years." The child had sat quietly down in a chair, and was looking into the fire while the two men were speaking. She had done what she was told to do, and was waiting quietly for what was to come next. Her quick ear, however, caught, in the tones of John Petersham, an apologetic tone when speaking of her grandfather, and she was moved to instant anger. "Why do you speak like that of my grampa?" she said, rising to her feet, and standing indignantly before him. "He is the best man in the world, and the kindest and the nicest, and if you don't like him, I can go away to him again. I don't want to stay here, not one minute. "You may be my grandpapa," she went on, turning to the squire, "and you may be lonely, but he is lonely, too, and you have got a great house, and all sorts of nice things; and you can do better without me than he can, for he has got nothing to love but me, poor grampa!" And her eyes filled with sudden tears, as she thought of him tramping on his lonely walks over the hills. "We do not mean to speak unkindly of your grandfather, my dear," the squire said gently. "I have never seen him, you know, and John has never seen him but once. I have thought, all these years, bitterly of him; but perhaps I have been mistaken. He has ever been kind and good to you, and, above all, he has given you back to me, and that will make me think differently of him, in future. We all make mistakes, you know, and I have made terrible mistakes, and have been terribly punished for them. I daresay I have made a mistake here; but whether or no, you shall never hear a word, from me, against the man who has been so kind to you." "And you will let me see him sometimes, grandpapa?" the child said, taking his hand pleadingly. "He said, if you said no, I must do as you told me; because somehow you are nearer to me than he is, though I don't know how that can be. But you won't say that, will you? For, oh! I know he is so lonely without me, and I should never be happy, thinking of him all alone, not if you were to be ever so kind to me, and to give me all sorts of grand things." "No, my dear, I certainly shall not say so. You shall see him as often as you like." "Oh, thank you, grandpapa!" she exclaimed joyfully, and she held up her face to kiss him. The squire lifted her in his arms, and held her closely to him. "John," he said, "you must tell Mrs. Morcombe to get a room ready for my granddaughter, at once, and you had better bring the tea in here, and then we will think of other things. I feel quite bewildered, at present." When John returned with the tea, Aggie was sitting on the squire's knee. She was perfectly at home, now, and had been chattering to him of her life with her grandfather, and had just related the incident of her narrow escape from drowning. "Do you hear that, John?" the squire said. "She was nearly drowned here, within sight of our home, and I might never have known anything about it. It seems that lad of Dr. Walsham's saved her life. He is a fine lad. He was her champion, you know, in that affair with my nephew. How strange that the two boys should have quarrelled over my granddaughter!" "Yes, squire, and young Walsham came well out of it!" John said heartily; for to him, only, did the squire mention the circumstances of the case, and he chuckled now to himself, as he thought that Richard Horton had made an even greater mistake in that matter than he thought of, for John detested the boy with all his heart, and had only abstained from reporting his conduct, to the squire, from fear of giving his master pain. The squire's brow clouded a little at the allusion. "It will make a difference to him, John," he said, "for, of course, now my granddaughter will take his place." "And a good thing, too!" John said heartily. "I have never said a word before, squire, because, as you had chosen him as your heir, there was no use in setting you against him; but a more hatefuller lad than Richard Horton I never comed across, and so said everyone here. You did not see much of him, squire, and natural thought well of him, for he was a good-looking boy, and could speak fair enough when he liked. I thought well of him, myself, when he first came, but I larned better, afterwards." "There are many excuses to be made for him, John," the squire said, "and I have had good reports of him, since. Of course, I shall see that, although he can no longer be regarded as my heir here, he shall be well provided for. But there will be plenty of time to think of this." "Mr. Wilks asked me to say, sir," the butler said as he prepared to leave them, "that he shall be staying in Sidmouth tomorrow, and that, if you wish to see him, he will come up here." "Certainly I wish to see him," the squire replied. "I have many things to ask him. Let the boy go down, the first thing in the morning, or--no, if you don't mind, John, would you go down yourself tonight? He will naturally be anxious to know how his grandchild is getting on. Tell him with what joy I have received her, and take any message she may give you. "Is there anything you would like to say to your grandfather, child?" "Oh, yes. Please tell him that I think I shall like it, and that he is to come and see me when he likes, and that, of course, he is to see me when he comes in the morning, and then I can tell him all about it." "And say, I shall be glad to see him the first thing after breakfast," the squire added. The housekeeper soon entered, and Aggie, very sleepy after the excitements of the day, was taken off to bed. Her sleepiness, however, disappeared in her wonder at the size of the house, and at the vastness of her bedroom. "Why, you have got a fire!" she exclaimed in astonishment. "I never saw a fire in a bedroom, before." "I didn't light it for the cold, miss," the housekeeper said; "but because it is a long time since the room was slept in before, and because I thought it would be cheerful for you. I shall sleep in the next room, till things are settled, so that, if you want anything, you will only have to run in." "Thank you," Aggie said gratefully. "It does all seem so big; but I am sure not to want anything. Thank you." "Here is your box, miss. Would you like me to help undress you?" "Oh, no!" Aggie laughed. "Why, of course I can undress myself;" and she laughed at the idea of assistance being required in such a matter. "Then, good night!" the housekeeper said. "I shall leave the door ajar, between the two rooms, when I come to bed." The next morning, soon after breakfast, Sergeant Wilks was ushered into the study, where the squire was expecting him. The two men had had hard thoughts of each other, for many years. The squire regarded the sergeant as a man who had inveigled his son into marrying his daughter, while the sergeant regarded the squire as a heartless and unnatural father, who had left his son to die alone among strangers. The conversation with John Petersham had taught the sergeant that he had wronged the squire, by his estimate of him, and that he was to be pitied rather than blamed in the matter. The squire, on his part, was grateful to the sergeant for the care he had bestowed upon the child, and for restoring her to him, and was inclined, indeed, at the moment, to a universal goodwill to all men. The sergeant was pale, but self possessed and quiet; while the squire, moved, by the events of the night before, out of the silent reserve in which he had, for years, enveloped himself, was agitated and nervous. He was the first to speak. "Mr. Wilks," he said. "I have to give you my heartfelt thanks, for having restored my granddaughter to me--the more so as I know, from what she has said, how great a sacrifice you must be making. John has been telling me of his conversation with you, and you have learned, from him, that I was not so wholly heartless and unnatural a father as you must have thought me; deeply as I blame myself, and shall always blame myself, in the matter." "Yes," the sergeant said. "I have learned that I have misread you. Had it not been so, I should have brought the child to you long ago--should never have taken her away, indeed. Perhaps we have both misjudged each other." "I fear that we have," the squire said, remembering the letters he wrote to his son, in his anger, denouncing the sergeant in violent language. "It does not matter, now," the sergeant went on quietly; "but, as I do not wish Aggie ever to come to think ill of me, in the future, it is better to set it right. "When I left the army, I had saved enough money to furnish a house, and I took one at Southampton, and set up taking lodgers there. I had my pension, and lived well until my wife died--a year before your son came down, from London, with another gentleman, and took my rooms. My daughter was seventeen when her mother died, and she took to managing the house. I was careful of her, and gave her orders that, on no account, was she ever to go into the lodgers' rooms. I waited on them, myself. "How your son first saw her, and got to speak to her, I don't know; but I am not surprised that, when he did, he loved her, for there was no prettier or sweeter girl in Hampshire. They took the rooms, first, only for a fortnight, then the other gentleman went away, and your son stayed on. "One day--it came upon me like a thunderbolt--your son told me he wanted to marry my Agnes. I was angry, at first. Angry, because it had been done behind my back, and because I had been deceived. I said as much; but your son assured me that he had never spoken to her in the house, but had met her when she went out for her walks. Still, it was wrong, and I told him so, and I told her so, though, in my heart, I did not altogether blame them; for young people will be young people, and, as he had acted honourably in coming to me at once, I let that pass. "But, squire, though but a sergeant in His Majesty's service, I had my pride as you had yours, and I told him, at once, that I would not give my consent to my daughter's marrying him, until you had given yours; and that he must leave the house at once, and not see Agnes again, until he came with your written consent to show me. "He went away at once. After a time, he began to write to me, urging me to change my decision; and from this, although he never said so, I was sure that you had refused to sanction his marriage. However, I stuck to what I had said, though it was hard for me to do so, with my child growing thin and pale before my eyes, with all her bright happiness gone. "So it went on, for three months, and then one morning she was gone, and I found a letter on her table for me, saying that she had been married to him a week before, when she went out, as I thought, to spend the day with a friend. She begged and prayed me to forgive her, and said how miserable she had been, and that she could not say no to her lover's pleadings. "I wrote to the address she had given me, saying that she had well nigh broken my heart. She knew that I had only refused my consent because it would have seemed a dishonourable action, to allow your son to marry her without your consent. She knew how hard it had been for me to do my duty, when I saw her pining before my eyes, but I forgave her wholly, and did not altogether blame her, seeing that it was the way of Nature that young women, when they once took to loving, should put their father altogether in the second place; "It was hard to me to write that letter, for I longed to see her bonny face again. But I thought it was my duty. I thought so then; but I think, now, it was pride. "From time to time she wrote to me. I learned that you still refused to see your son, and I gathered, though she did not say much of this, that things were going badly with them. At last, she wrote that her husband was ill--very ill, she feared. He had, in vain, tried to get employment. I don't think he was naturally strong, and the anxiety had broken him down. Then I went up to London at once, and found them, in a little room, without the necessaries of life. I brought them down home, and nursed him for three months, till he died. "A week later, Aggie was born. Ten days afterwards, I laid her mother by the side of her father. No answer had come to the letters he had written to you, while he had been ill, though in the later ones he had told you that he was dying. So, I looked upon the child as mine. "Things had gone badly with me. I had been able to take no lodgers, while they were with me. I had got into debt, and even could I have cleared myself, I could not well have kept the house on, without a woman to look after it. I was restless, too, and longed to be moving about. So I sold off the furniture, paid my debts, and laid by the money that remained, for the child's use in the future. "I had, some time before, met an old comrade travelling the country with a show. I happened to meet him again, just as I was leaving, and he told me the name of a man, in London, who sold such things. I left the child, for a year, with some people I knew, a few miles out of Southampton; came up to London, bought a show, and started. It was lonely work, at first; but, after a year, I fetched the child away, and took her round the country with me, and for four years had a happy time of it. "I had chosen this part of the country, and, after a time, I became uneasy in my mind, as to whether I was doing right; and whether, for the child's sake, I ought not to tell you that she was alive, and offer to give her up, if you were willing to take her. I heard how your son's death had changed you, and thought that, maybe, you would like to take his daughter; but, before bringing her to you, I thought she should have a better education than I had time to give her, and that she should be placed with a lady, so that, if you took her, you need not be ashamed of her manners. "I hoped you would not take her. I wanted to keep her for myself; but my duty to her was clear. "And now, squire, you know all about it. I have been wrong to keep her so long from you, I grant; but I can only say that I have done my duty, as far as I could, and that, though I have made many mistakes, my conscience is clear, that I did the best, as far as it seemed to me at the time."	{ "id": "17766" }
5	: A Quiet Time.	As the sergeant was telling the story, the squire had sat with his face shaded by his hand, but more than one tear had dropped heavily on the table. "I wish I could say as much," he said sadly, when the other ended. "I wish that I could say that my conscience is clear, Mr. Wilks. I have misjudged you cruelly, and that without a tithe of the reason, which you had, for thinking me utterly heartless and cruel. You will have heard that I never got those letters my son wrote me, after he was ill, and that, when I returned home and received them, I posted to Southampton, only to find that I was too late; and that, for a year, I did all in my power to find the child. Still, all this is no excuse. I refused to forgive him, returned his letters unanswered, and left him, as it seemed, to his fate. "It is no excuse to say that I had made up my mind to forgive him, when he was, as I thought, sufficiently punished. He did not know that. As to the poverty in which you found him, I can only plead that I did not dream that he would come to that. He had, I knew, some money, for I had just sent him his half-year's allowance before he wrote to me about this business. Then there was the furniture of his rooms in London, his horses, jewels, and other matters. I had thought he could go on very well for a year. "Of course, I was mistaken. Herbert was always careless about money, and, no doubt, he spent it freely after he was first married. He would naturally wish to have everything pretty and nice for his young wife, and, no doubt, he counted upon my forgiving him long before the money was spent. "I am not excusing myself. God knows how bitterly I have condemned myself, all these years. I only want to show you that I had no idea of condemning him to starvation. He was my only son, and I loved him. I felt, perhaps, his rebellion all the more, because he had never before given me a day's trouble. I was harsh, obstinate, and cruel. "I have only the one old excuse. I never thought it would turn out as it did. What would I give, if I could say, as you can, that you have a clear conscience, and that you acted always as it seemed to be your duty! "And now, Mr. Wilks, now that I have heard your story, I trust that you will forgive my past suspicions of you, and let me say how much I honour and esteem you for your conduct. No words can tell you how I thank you, for your goodness and kindness to my little granddaughter; our little granddaughter, I should say. You have the better right, a thousand-fold, to her than I have; and, had I been in your place, I could never have made such a sacrifice. "We must be friends, sir, great friends. Our past has been saddened by the same blow. All our hopes, in the future, are centred on the same object." The two men rose to their feet together, and their hands met in a firm clasp, and tears stood in both their eyes. Then the squire put his hand on the other's shoulder, and said, "We will talk again, presently. Let us go into the next room. The little one is longing to see you, and we must not keep her." For the next hour, the two men devoted themselves to the child. Now that she had her old friend with her, she felt no further misgivings, and was able to enter into the full delight of her new home. The house and its wonders were explored, and, much as she was delighted with these, the gardens and park were an even greater excitement and pleasure. Dancing, chattering, asking questions of one or the other, she was half wild with pleasure, and the squire was no less delighted. A new light and joy had come into his life, and with it the ten years, which sorrow and regret had laid upon him, had fallen off; for, although his habits of seclusion and quiet had caused him to be regarded as quite an old man by his neighbours, he was still three years short of sixty, while the sergeant was two years younger. It was a happy morning for them, all three; and when John Petersham went in, after lunch, to the kitchen, he assured his fellow servants that it was as much as he could do to keep from crying with joy, at the sight of the squire's happy face, and to hear him laugh and joke, as he had not done for eight years now. The sergeant had stopped to that meal, for he saw, by the manner in which the squire asked him, that he should give pain if he refused; and there was a simple dignity about the old soldier, which would have prevented his appearing out of place at the table of the highest in the land. "Now, pussy," the squire said, when they had finished, "you must amuse yourself for a bit. You can go in the garden again, or sit with Mrs. Morcombe in her room. She will look you out some picture books from the library. I am afraid there is nothing very suited to your reading, but we will soon put all that right. Your grandfather and I want to have another quiet chat together." "Now I want your advice," he said when they were both comfortably seated in the study. "You see, you have been thinking and planning about the child for years, while it has all come new upon me, so I must rely upon you entirely. Of course, the child must have a governess, that is the first thing; not so much for the sake of teaching her, though, of course, she must be taught, but as a companion for her." "Yes," the sergeant assented, "she must have a governess." "It will be a troublesome matter to find one to suit," the squire said thoughtfully. "I don't want a harsh sort of Gorgon, to repress her spirits and bother her life out with rules and regulations; and I won't have a giddy young thing, because I should like to have the child with me at breakfast and lunch, and I don't want a fly-away young woman who will expect all sorts of attention. Now, what is your idea? I have no doubt you have, pictured in your mind, the exact sort of woman you would like to have over her." "I have," the sergeant answered quietly. "I don't know whether it would suit you, squire, or whether it could be managed; but it does seem, to me, that you have got the very woman close at hand. Aggie has been for two years with Mrs. Walsham, who is a lady in every way. She is very fond of the child, and the child is very fond of her. Everyone says she is an excellent teacher. She would be the very woman to take charge of her." "The very thing!" the squire exclaimed, with great satisfaction. "But she has a school," he went on, his face falling a little, "and there is a son." "I have thought of that," the sergeant said. "The school enables them to live, but it cannot do much more, so that I should think she would feel no reluctance at giving that up." "Money would be no object," the squire said. "I am a wealthy man, Mr. Wilks, and have been laying by the best part of my income for the last eight years. I would pay any salary she chose, for the comfort of such an arrangement would be immense, to say nothing of the advantage and pleasure it would be to the child. But how about the boy?" "We both owe a good deal to the boy, squire," the sergeant said gravely, "for if it had not been for him, the child would have been lost to us." "So she was telling me last night," the squire said. "And he really saved her life?" "He did," the sergeant replied. "But for his pluck and promptitude she must have been drowned. A moment's hesitation on his part, and nothing could have saved her." "I made up my mind last night," the squire said, "to do something for him. I have seen him before, and was much struck with him." "Then, in that case, squire, I think the thing could be managed. If the lad were sent to a good school, his mother might undertake the management of Aggie. She could either go home of an evening, or sleep here and shut up her house, as you might arrange with her; living, of course, at home, when the boy was home for his holidays, and only coming up for a portion of the day." "That would be a capital plan," the squire agreed warmly. "The very thing. I should get off all the bother with strange women, and the child would have a lady she is already fond of, and who, I have no doubt, is thoroughly qualified for the work. Nothing could be better. I will walk down this afternoon and see her myself, and I have no doubt I shall be able to arrange it. "And now about yourself--what are your plans?" "I shall start tomorrow morning on my tramp, as usual," the sergeant answered quietly; "but I shall take care, in future, that I do not come with my box within thirty miles or so of Sidmouth. I do not want Aggie's future to be, in any way, associated with a showman's box. I shall come here, sometimes, to see her, as you have kindly said I may, but I will not abuse the privilege by coming too often. Perhaps you won't think a day, once every three months, to be too much?" "I should think it altogether wrong and monstrous!" the squire exclaimed hotly. "You have been virtually the child's father, for the last seven years. You have cared for her, and loved her, and worked for her. She is everything to you, and I feel how vast are your claims to her, compared to mine; and now you talk about going away, and coming to see her once every three months. The idea is unnatural. It is downright monstrous! "No, you and I understand each other at last; would to Heaven we had done so eight years back! I feel how much more nobly you acted in that unhappy matter than I did, and I esteem and honour you. We are both getting on in life, we have one common love and interest, we stand in the same relation to the child, and I say, emphatically, that you have a right, and more than a right, to a half share in her. You must go away no more, but remain here as my friend, and as joint guardian of the child. "I will have no refusal, man," he went on, as the sergeant shook his head. "Your presence here will be almost as great a comfort, to me, as to the child. I am a lonely man. For years, I have cut myself loose from the world. I have neither associates nor friends. But now that this great load is off my mind, my first want is a friend; and who could be so great a friend, who could enter into my plans and hopes for the future so well, as yourself, who would have an interest in them equal to my own?" The sergeant was much moved by the squire's earnestness. He saw that the latter had really at heart the proposal he made. "You are very good, squire," he said in a low voice; "but even if I could bring myself to eat another man's bread, as long as I can work for my own, it would not do. I am neither by birth nor education fitted for such a position as that you offer to me." "Pooh, nonsense!" the squire said hotly. "You have seen the world. You have travelled and mixed with men. You are fit to associate as an equal with anyone. Don't you deceive yourself; you certainly do not deceive me. "It is pride that stands in your way. For that you are going to risk the happiness of your granddaughter, to say nothing of mine; for you don't suppose that either of us is going to feel comfortable and happy, when the snow is whirling round, and the wind sweeping the moors, to think of you trudging along about the country, while we are sitting snugly here by a warm fire. "You are wanting to spoil everything, now that it has all come right at last, by just the same obstinate pride which wrecked the lives of our children. I won't have it, man. I won't hear of it. "Come, say no more. I want a friend badly, and I am sure we shall suit each other. I want a companion. Why, man, if I were a rich old lady, and you were a poor old lady, and I asked you to come as my companion, you would see nothing derogatory in the offer. You shall come as my companion, now, or if you like as joint guardian to the child. You shall have your own rooms in the house; and when you feel inclined to be grumpy, and don't care to take your meals with the child and me, you can take them apart. "At any rate, try it for a month, and if you are not comfortable then I will let you go, though your rooms shall always be in readiness for you, whenever you are disposed to come back. "Come, give me your hand on the bargain." Sergeant Wilks could resist no longer. The last two years work, without the child, had indeed been heavy, and especially in winter, when the wind blew strong across the uplands, he began to feel that he was no longer as strong as he used to be. The prospect of having Aggie always near him was, however, a far greater temptation than that of ending his days in quiet and comfort. His hand and that of the squire met in a cordial grip, and the matter was settled. Fortunately, as the sergeant reflected, he had still his pension of ten shillings a week, which would suffice to supply clothes and other little necessaries which he might require, and would thus save him from being altogether dependent on the squire. Aggie was wild with delight, when she was called in and informed of the arrangement. The thought of her grandfather tramping the country, alone, had been the one drawback to the pleasure of her life at Mrs. Walsham's, and many a time she had cried herself to sleep, as she pictured to herself his loneliness. That he was to be with her always, was to give up his work to settle down in comfort, was indeed a delight to her. Greatly pleased was she, also, to hear that Mrs. Walsham was to be asked to come up to be her governess. "Oh, it will be nice!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands. "Just like the fairy stories you used to tell me, grampa, when everyone was made happy at the end by the good fairy. Grandpapa is the good fairy, and you and I are the prince and princess; and James--and what is to be done with James? Is he to come up, too?" "No, my dear," the squire said, smiling. "James is to go to a good school, but you will see him when he comes home for his holidays. But that part of it is not arranged yet, you know; but if you will put on your hat, you can walk down with us to the town, and introduce me to Mrs. Walsham." Mrs. Walsham had just dismissed her pupils, when the party arrived, and was thinking how quiet and dull the house was without Aggie, when the door opened, and the child rushed in and threw her arms round her neck. "Oh, I have such good news to tell you! Grandpapa is so good and kind, and grampa is going to live with us, and you are to come up, too, and James is to go to school. Isn't it all splendid?" "What are you talking about, Aggie?" Mrs. Walsham asked, bewildered, as the child poured out her news. "Aggie is too fast, madam," the squire said, entering the room accompanied by the sergeant. "She is taking it all for granted, while it has yet to be arranged. I must apologize for coming in without knocking; but the child opened the door and rushed in, and the best thing to do was, we thought, to follow her. "I have come, in the first place, to thank you for your great kindness to my little granddaughter, and to tell your son how deeply I feel indebted to him, for having saved her life two years ago. "Now, Aggie, you run away and look for your friend, while I talk matters over with Mrs. Walsham." Aggie scampered away to find James, who was at work at his books, and to tell him the news, while the squire unfolded his plans to Mrs. Walsham. His offers were so handsome that Mrs. Walsham accepted them, without an instant's hesitation. She was to have the entire charge of the child during the day, with the option of either returning home in the evening, when Aggie went in to dessert after dinner, or of living entirely at the Hall. The squire explained his intention of sending James to a good school at Exeter, as an instalment of the debt he owed him for saving the child's life, and he pointed out that, when he was at home for his holidays, Aggie could have her holidays, too, and Mrs. Walsham need only come up to the Hall when she felt inclined. Mrs. Walsham was delighted with the offer, even more for James's sake than her own, although the prospect for herself was most pleasant. To have only Aggie to teach, and walk with, would be delightful after the monotony of drilling successive batches of girls, often inordinately tiresome and stupid. She said, at once, that she should prefer returning home at night--a decision which pleased the squire, for he had wondered what he should do with her in the evening. The arrangement was at once carried into effect. The school was broken up, and, as the parents of the children were almost all tenants of the squire, they offered no objection to the girls being suddenly left on their hands, when they heard that their teacher was going to live as governess at the Hall. Indeed, the surprise of Sidmouth and the neighbourhood, at learning that the little girl at Mrs. Walsham's was the squire's granddaughter, and that the showman was therefore a connection of the squire, and was going also to live at the Hall, was so great, that there was no room for any other emotion. Save for wrecks, or the arrival of shoals of fish off the coast, or of troubles between the smugglers and the revenue officers, Sidmouth had few excitements, and the present news afforded food for endless talk and conjecture. On comparing notes, it appeared that there was not a woman in the place who had not been, all along, convinced that the little girl at Mrs. Walsham's was something more than she seemed to be, and that the showman was a man quite out of the ordinary way. And when, on the following Sunday, the sergeant, who had in the meantime been to Exeter, walked quietly into church with the squire, all agreed that the well-dressed military-looking man was a gentleman, and that he had only been masquerading under the name of Sergeant Wilks until, somehow or other, the quarrel between him and the squire was arranged, and the little heiress restored to her position; and Sidmouth remained in that belief to the end. The sergeant's military title was henceforth dropped. Mr. Linthorne introduced him to his acquaintances--who soon began to flock in, when it was known that the squire's granddaughter had come home, and that he was willing to see his friends and join in society again--as "My friend Mr. Wilks, the father of my poor boy's wife." And the impression made was generally favourable. None had ever known the exact story of Herbert's marriage. It was generally supposed that he had married beneath him; but the opinion now was that this must have been a mistake, for there was nothing in any way vulgar about the quiet, military-looking gentleman, with whom the squire was evidently on terms of warm friendship. The only person somewhat dissatisfied with the arrangement was James Walsham. He loved his mother so much, that he had never offered the slightest dissent to her plan, that he should follow in his father's footsteps. She was so much set on the matter, that he could never bring himself to utter a word in opposition. At heart, however, he longed for a more stirring and more adventurous life, such as that of a soldier or sailor, and he had all along cherished a secret hope, that something might occur to prevent his preparing for the medical profession, and so enable him to carry out his secret wishes. But the present arrangement seemed to put an end to all such hopes, and, although grateful to the squire for sending him to a good school, he wished, with all his heart, that he had chosen some other way of manifesting his gratitude. Four years passed quietly. James Walsham worked hard when at school, and, during his holidays, spent his time for the most part on board the fishermen's boats. Sometimes he went up to the Hall, generally at the invitation of Mr. Wilks. "Why don't you come oftener, Jim?" the latter asked him one day. "Aggie was saying, only yesterday, that you used to be such friends with her, and now you hardly ever come near her. The squire is as pleased as I am to see you." "I don't know," Jim replied. "You see, I am always comfortable with you. I can chat with you, and tell you about school, and about fishing, and so on. The squire is very kind, but I know it is only because of that picking Aggie out of the water, and I never seem to know what to talk about with him. And then, you see, Aggie is growing a young lady, and can't go rambling about at my heels as she used to do, when she was a little girl. I like her, you know, Mr. Wilks, just as I used to do; but I can't carry her on my shoulder now, and make a playfellow of her." "I suppose that's all natural enough, Jim," Aggie's grandfather said; "but I do think it is a pity you don't come up more often. You know we are all fond of you, and it will give us a pleasure to have you here." Jim was, in fact, getting to the awkward age with boys. When younger, they tyrannize over their little sisters, when older they may again take pleasure in girls' society; but there is an age, in every boy's life, when he is inclined to think girls a nuisance, as creatures incapable of joining in games, and as being apt to get in the way. Still, Jim was very fond of his former playmate, and had she been still living down in Sidmouth with his mother, they would have been as great friends as ever. At the end of the fourth year, Richard Horton came back, after an absence of five years. He was now nearly twenty, and had just passed as lieutenant. He was bronzed with the Eastern sun, and had grown from a good-looking boy into a handsome young man, and was perfectly conscious of his good looks. Among his comrades, he had gained the nickname of "The Dandy"--a name which he accepted in good part, although it had not been intended as complimentary, for Richard Horton was by no means a popular member of his mess. Boys are quick to detect each other's failings, and several sharp thrashings, when he first joined, had taught Richard that it was very inexpedient to tell a lie on board a ship, if there was any chance of its being detected. As he had become one of the senior midshipmen, his natural haughtiness made him disliked by the younger lads; while, among those of his own standing, he had not one sincere friend, for there was a general feeling, among them, that although Richard Horton was a pleasant companion, and a very agreeable fellow when he liked, he was not somehow straight, not the sort of fellow to be depended upon in all emergencies. By the captain and lieutenants, he was considered a smart young officer. He was always careful to do his duty, quiet, and gentlemanly in manner, and in point of appearance, and dress, a credit to the ship. Accordingly, all the reports that his captain had sent home of him had been favourable. Great as was the rage and disappointment which Richard had felt, when he received the letter from his uncle telling him of the discovery of his long-lost granddaughter, he had the tact to prevent any signs of his feelings being visible, in the letter in which he replied. The squire had told him that, although the discovery would, of course, make a considerable difference in his prospects, he should still, if the reports of his conduct continued satisfactory, feel it his duty to make a handsome provision for him. "Thanks to my quiet life during the last ten years," the squire had written, "I have plenty for both of you. The estate will, of course, go to her; but, always supposing that your conduct will be satisfactory, I shall continue, during my lifetime, the allowance you at present receive, and you will find yourself set down, in my will, for the sum of twenty thousand pounds." Richard had replied in terms which delighted the squire. "You see, the boy has a good heart," he said, as he handed the letter to Mr. Wilks. "No one could express himself better." His companion read the letter over in silence. "Charmingly expressed," he said as he returned it. "Almost too charmingly, it seems to me." "Come, come, Wilks, you are prejudiced against the young fellow, for that business with Aggie and young Walsham." "I hope I am not prejudiced, squire," his friend replied; "but when I know that a lad is a liar, and that he will bring false accusations to shield himself, and when I know that he was detested by all who came in contact with him--John Petersham, the gardener, and the grooms--I require a good deal more than a few satisfactory reports from his captain, who can know very little of his private character, and a soft-soldering letter like that, to reinstate him in my good opinion. I will wager that, if you and I had been standing behind him when he opened your letter, you would have heard an expression of very different sentiments from those he writes you here. "Look at this: 'I regret, indeed, my dear uncle, that my new cousin must have such a bad opinion of me, owing to my roughness in that unfortunate affair, which I have never ceased to regret; but I hope that, when we meet, I shall be able to overcome the dislike which she must feel for me.' "Bah!" the old soldier said scornfully. "I would lay all my pension, to a shilling, that boy has already made up his mind that someday he will marry Aggie, and so contrive to get the estates after all." The squire burst into a good-humoured laugh. "It's well I don't take up your wager. Such ideas as that might occur to you and me, but hardly to a lad not yet seventeen." "Well, we shall see," the other said, cooling down. "I hope I may be mistaken in him. We shall see when he comes home." When he did come home, the old soldier could find but little fault with the young man. He had a frank and open manner, such as is common to men of his profession. He was full of life and anecdote. His manner to the squire was admirable, affectionate, and quietly respectful, without any air of endeavouring especially to ingratiate himself with him. Nor could the ex-sergeant find anything to complain of in the young man's manner towards himself. He took the first opportunity, when they were alone, to say how glad he had been, to hear that his grandfather had met with a friend and companion in his lonely life, and to express a hope that the bad opinion, which he had doubtless formed of him from his conduct when a boy, would not be allowed to operate against him now. But, though there was nothing he could find fault with, the old soldier's prejudices were in no way shaken, and, indeed, his antipathy was increased, rather than diminished, by the young officer's conduct towards Aggie. It might be, of course, that he was only striving to overcome the prejudiced feeling against him; but every time the old soldier saw him with his granddaughter, he felt angry. In point of fact, Aggie was disposed to like Richard, even before his arrival. Six years had eradicated every tinge of animosity for that shove on the sand. His letters had been long, bright, and amusing, and with the mementos of travel which he picked up in the ports of India and China, and from time to time sent home to his uncle, there was always a little box with some pretty trinket "for my cousin." She found him now a delightful companion. He treated her as if she had been seventeen, instead of eleven; was ready to ride or walk with her, or to tell her stories of the countries he had seen, as she might choose; and to humour all her whims and fancies. "Confound him and his pleasant manners!" the ex-sergeant would mutter to himself, as he watched them together, and saw, as he believed, in the distance, the overthrow of the scheme he had at heart. "He is turning the child's head; and that foolish boy, James, is throwing away his chances." James, indeed, came home from school for the last time, two or three weeks after Richard Horton's return. He was now nearly eighteen, and, although a broad and powerful fellow, was still a boy at heart. He did not show to advantage by the side of Richard Horton. The first time he went up to the Hall, after his return, the latter had met him with outstretched hand. "I am glad to meet you again," he said. "I behaved like a blackguard, last time we met, and you gave me the thrashing which I deserved. I hope we shall get on better, in the future." Aggie and her two grandfathers were present, and James Walsham certainly did not show to advantage, by the side of the easy and self-possessed young officer. He muttered something about its being all right, and then found nothing else to say, being uncomfortable, and ill at ease. He made some excuse about being wanted at home, and took his leave; nor did he again go up to call. Several times, the old soldier went down to Sidmouth to see him, and on one occasion remonstrated with him for not coming up to the Hall. "What's the use?" James said, roughly. "I have got lots of reading to do, for in two months, you know, I am to go up to London, to walk the hospitals. No one wants me up there. Aggie has got that cousin of hers to amuse her, and I should feel only in the way, if I went." Mr. Wilks was fairly out of temper at the way things were going. He was angry with James; angry with the squire, who evidently viewed with satisfaction the good understanding between his granddaughter and nephew; angry, for the first time in his life, with Aggie herself. "You are growing a downright little flirt, Miss Aggie," he said one day, when the girl came in from the garden, where she had been laughing and chatting with her cousin. He had intended to speak playfully, but there was an earnestness in his tone which the girl, at once, detected. "Are you really in earnest, grampa?" she asked, for she still retained the childish name for her grandfather--so distinguishing him from the squire, whom she always called grandpapa. "No; I don't know that I am in earnest, Aggie," he said, trying to speak lightly; "and yet, perhaps, to some extent I am." "I am sure you are," the girl said. "Oh, grampa! You are not really cross with me, are you?" and the tears at once sprang into her eyes. "I have not been doing anything wrong, have I?" "No, my dear, not in the least wrong," her grandfather said hastily. "Still, you know, I don't like seeing Jim, who has always been so good and kind to you, quite neglected, now this young fellow, who is not fit to hold a candle to him, has turned up." "Well, I haven't neglected him, grampa. He has neglected me. He has never been near since that first day, and you know I can't very well go round to Sidmouth, and say to him, 'Please come up to the Hall.'" "No, my dear, I know you can't, and he is behaving like a young fool." "Why is he?" Aggie asked, surprised. "If he likes sailing about better than coming up here, why shouldn't he?" "I don't think it's for that he stays away, Aggie. In fact, you see, Jim has only just left school, and he feels he can't laugh, and talk, and tell you stories about foreign countries, as this young fellow can, and having been so long accustomed to have you to himself, he naturally would not like the playing second fiddle to Richard Horton." "But he hasn't been here much," the girl said, "ever since I came here. He used to be so nice, and so kind, in the old days when I lived down there, that I can't make out why he has changed so." "My dear, I don't think he has changed. He has been only a boy, and the fact is, he is only a boy still. He is fond of sailing, and of the amusements boys take to, and he doesn't feel at home, and comfortable here, as he did with you when you were a little girl at his mother's. But mind, Aggie, James is true as steel. He is an honourable and upright young fellow. He is worth fifty of this self-satisfied, pleasant-spoken young sailor." "I know James is good and kind, grampa," the girl said earnestly; "but you see, he is not very amusing, and Richard is very nice." "Nice! Yes," the old soldier said; "a fair weather sort of niceness, Aggie. Richard Horton is the squire's nephew, and I don't wish to say anything against him; but mark my words, and remember them, there's more goodness in James's little finger, than there is in his whole body. But there, I am a fool to be talking about it. There is your cousin calling you, in the garden. Go along with you." The girl went off slowly, wondering at her grandfather's earnestness. She knew she liked her old playmate far better than Richard Horton, although the latter's attentions pleased and flattered her. The old soldier went straight off to the squire's study. "Squire," he said, "you remember that talk we had, three years ago, when your nephew's answer came to your letter, telling him that Aggie was found. I told you that I would wager he had made up his mind to marry her. You laughed at me; but I was right. Child though she still is, he is already paving the way for the future." "Master Richard certainly is carrying on a sort of flirtation with the little witch," the squire said, smiling; "but as she is such a mere child as you say, what does it matter?" "I think it matters a great deal," the old soldier said seriously. "I see, squire, the young fellow has quite regained your good opinion; and unless I am mistaken, you have already thought, to yourself, that it would not be a bad thing if they were to come together someday. "I have thought it over, and have made up my mind that, in spite of your four years' continued kindness to me, and of the warm friendship between us, I must go away for a time. My box is still lying at Exeter, and I would rather tramp the country again, and live on it and my pension, than stay here and see my darling growing up a woman with that future before her. I am sorry to say, squire, that what you call my prejudice is as strong as ever. I doubt that young fellow as strongly as I did before he came home. Then, I only had his past conduct and his letter to go by. Now I have the evidence of my own senses. You may ask me what I have against him. I tell you--nothing; but I misdoubt him from my heart. I feel that he is false, that what he was when a boy, he is now. There is no true ring about him." The squire was silent for a minute or two. He had a very sincere friendship and liking for his companion, a thorough confidence in his judgment and principles. He knew his self-sacrificing nature, and that he was only speaking from his love for his grandchild. "Do not let us talk about it now, old friend," he said quietly. "You and I put, before all other things, Aggie's happiness. Disagreement between us there can be none on the subject. Give me tonight to think over what you have said, and we will talk about it again tomorrow."	{ "id": "17766" }
6	: A Storm.	After breakfast next morning, the squire asked his friend to go with him into his study. "I have been thinking this matter over," he said, "very seriously, and, upon reflection, I agree with you that it is undesirable that Aggie should see much of Richard, until she is of an age to form a fair opinion for herself, and to compare him with other young men. I agree with you, also, that we have not yet sufficient proofs that he is completely changed. I hope that he is. You think he is not. At any rate, he must have a longer trial, and until it is proved to your satisfaction, as well as mine, that he is in every way a desirable husband for Aggie, the less they see of each other, the better. I therefore propose to write at once to my friend Admiral Hewson, to ask him to use his influence, at the admiralty, to get the young fellow appointed to a ship. Does that meet your approval, my friend?" "Quite so," the other said cordially. "Nothing could be better. In the meantime, as you say, should Richard turn out well, and the young people take a liking for each other, no match could be more satisfactory. What I want is that she should take no girlish fancy for him, at present." "So be it, then," the squire said. "I think, you know, that we are a couple of old fools, to be troubling ourselves about Aggie's future, at present. Still, in a matter which concerns us both so nearly, we cannot be too careful. If we had a woman with us, we could safely leave the matter in her hands; as it is, we must blunder on, as best we may." And so it was settled, and a week later, Richard Horton received an official letter from the admiralty, ordering him to proceed at once to Portsmouth to join the Thetis, to which he was appointed as fourth lieutenant. The order gave Richard extreme satisfaction. He was beginning to find his life desperately dull, and he was heartily sick of playing the attentive nephew. He was well content with the progress he had made; nothing had gone wrong since he returned, his uncle had clearly taken him back into his favour, and he had no doubt that Aggie quite appreciated the pains he had bestowed to gain her liking. He detested the squire's companion, for he felt that the latter disliked and distrusted him, and that his projects would meet with a warm opposition on his part. Still, with the squire and Aggie herself on his side, he did not fear the result. As to James Walsham, whom he had come home prepared to regard as a possible rival, from his early intimacy with the child, and the fact that his mother was her governess, he now regarded him with contempt, mingled with a revengeful determination to pay off the old score, should a chance ever present itself. He therefore started next day in high spirits, assuming, however, a great reluctance to tear himself away. A few days later a letter came from him, saying that he hoped that he should be able to come back, sometimes, for a day or two, as the Thetis was at present to be attached to the Channel squadron, and it was not expected that she would, for some time, proceed on foreign service. Early in October, James Walsham was to go up to London, to commence his medical course. A week before he was to start, Mr. Wilks went down in the morning, intending to insist on his returning with him to the Hall. As he went down towards Sidmouth, the old soldier noticed how strongly the wind was blowing, the trees were swaying and thrashing in the wind, the clouds were flying past overhead. Everything portended a severe gale. Finding, at Mrs. Walsham's, that James was down on the beach, he continued his course until he joined him there. James was standing with a group of fishermen, who were looking seaward. Now that he was exposed to the full force of the wind, Mr. Wilks felt that, not only was it going to blow a gale, but that it was blowing one already. The heavy clouds on the horizon seemed to lie upon the water, the waves were breaking with great force upon the beach, and the fishermen had hauled their boats up across the road. "It's blowing hard, Jim," he said, laying his hand on the young fellow's shoulder. "It is blowing hard, and it will blow a great deal harder before nightfall. The fishermen all think it is going to be an exceptional gale. It is blowing dead on shore. It will be bad work for any ships that happen to be coming up Channel today. Eight or ten of our boats are out. We thought we had made out three of them just before you came, but the cloud closed down on them. The fishermen are just going to get lifelines ready. I am afraid we are going to have a terrible night of it." "I came down to ask you if you will come up to lunch, Jim, but I suppose you will not be able to tear yourself away from here." "I shouldn't like to leave now, indeed. There is no saying what may happen. Besides, so many of the fishermen are away, that I may be useful here if a vessel comes ashore, and there may be half a dozen before the morning. Every hand will be wanted to give assistance." "But you could not get a boat out through those breakers, could you, Jim?" "Yes," Jim replied, "we might get one of the big boats through it now; but it's going to be worse, presently. When I went out, last year, with a boat to the brig which was driven ashore, it was worse than this. "I shall be very glad to come up tomorrow, if you will let me. I hear that fellow Horton went away last week." "Yes, he went away, Jim. But why his being there should have kept you from going up is beyond me." "I don't like the fellow, Mr. Wilks. He may mean very well, but I don't like him. I have been in one row about him with the squire, and I don't want another; but I am quite sure, if I had gone up much while he was there, it would have ended in my trying to punch his head again." "In that case, perhaps," the old soldier said, smiling, "you were wise to stay away, Jim. I don't like the lad myself. Still, punching his head would not have been a desirable thing." "I am glad you don't like him," James said, warmly. "Somehow I made up my mind that you were all sure to like him, and I don't suppose the idea made me like him any the better. He was just the free-and-easy sort of fellow to get along well, and I was quite sure that Aggie would not want me, when she had him to go about with her. I saw him drive through in the pony carriage with her, two or three times, and it was easy to see how thoroughly she was enjoying herself." "Well, it was your own fault, my boy. If you choose to sulk down here, and never to go up to the Hall, you can't blame Aggie for letting herself be amused by someone else." "Oh! I don't blame her," James said hastily. "Of course, it is all right that she should enjoy herself with her cousin. Only somehow, you know, after being great friends with anyone, one doesn't like to see someone else stepping into your place." "But as I have told you, over and over again, during the last three years, Jim, you have willfully stepped out of your place. You know how often I have asked you to come up, and how seldom you have come. You have never shown Aggie that you have any wish to continue on the footing of friendship, on which you stood towards each other when she was at your mother's, and as you have chosen to throw her over, I don't see why she shouldn't take to anyone else who takes pains to make himself pleasant to her." "Oh! I don't blame her a bit, Mr. Wilks. How could you think such a thing! I was very fond of little Aggie when she was at my mother's; but of course, I was not ass enough to suppose that she was going trotting about the country with me, when she once went up to the Hall as the squire's granddaughter. Of course, the whole thing was changed. "Ah! Here comes the rain." As he spoke, a sudden splash of rain struck them. It might have been noticed coming across the water in a white line. With it came a gust of wind, to which that which had already been blowing was a trifle. There was no more talking, for nothing less than a shout could have been heard above the roaring of the wind. It was scarcely possible to stand against the fury of the squall, and they were driven across the road, and took shelter at the corner of some houses, where the fishermen had already retired. The squall lasted but a few minutes, but was soon succeeded by another, almost equally furious, and this seemed to increase in strength, until the wind was blowing a perfect hurricane; but the fishermen now struggled across the road again, for, between the rain squalls, a glimpse had been caught of two of the fishing boats, and these were now approaching the shore. A mere rag of sail was set on each, and yet they tore over the waves at tremendous speed. One was some two hundred yards ahead of the other, and by the course they were making, they would come ashore nearly at the same spot. The news that two boats were in sight spread rapidly, and many of the fishermen's wives, with shawls over their heads, ran down and stood peering out from behind shelter, for it was well-nigh impossible to stand exposed to the fury of the gale. An old fisherman stood, with a coil of rope in his hand, close to the water's edge. Several of the others stood close to him, and four of them had hold of the other end of the rope. When the boat was within fifty yards of shore, the sail was lowered; but she still drove straight on before the wind, with scarce an abatement in her speed. A man stood in her bow, also with a coil of rope in his hand, and, as he approached, threw it far ahead. The fisherman rushed waist deep into the water and caught the end of it, which in a moment was knotted to the one in his hand. "Run along with her," he shouted. For a moment, the boat towered on the top of a wave, which raced in towards the shore. The next, as it came, took her stern, and she was in the act of swinging round, when the strain of the rope came upon her, and brought her straight again. Higher and higher the wave rose, and then crashed down, and the boat shot forward, like an arrow, in the foam. The fishermen rushed forward and caught it, those on board leapt out waist-deep; all were taken off their feet by the backward rush, but they clung to the sides of the boat, while the men at the head rope, with their heels dug deeply into the sand, withstood the strain, and kept her from being swept out again. A few seconds, and the boat was left dry, and the next wave carried it high up on the beach, amid a loud cheer from the fishermen and lookers on; but there was no time to waste, for the next boat was close at hand. Again, the rope was thrown to the shore, but this time the strain came a moment too late, the following wave turned the boat round, the next struck it broadside and rolled it, over and over, towards the shore. The fishermen, in an instant, joined hands, and rushing down into the water, strove to grasp the men. Several times, those in front were knocked down and rolled up on the beach, but three of the crew were brought in with them. There was one still missing, and there was a shout as he was seen, clinging to an oar, just outside the line of breakers. James Walsham had been working with the fishermen in saving those already brought to shore. He now fastened the end of a line round his body. "You can never get through those rollers--they will break you up like an eggshell," the old fisherman shouted. "I will dive through them," Jim shouted back. "Give me plenty of slack, and don't pull, till you see I have got him." The lad waited for his opportunity, and then, rushing down after the sheet of white foam, he stood, waist deep, as a great wave, some twelve feet high, towered up like a wall towards him. It was just going to break, when James plunged, head foremost, into it. There was a crash which shook the earth, a mass of wildly rushing foam, and then, some ten yards beyond the spot where the wave had broken, Jim's head appeared above the surface. It was but for a moment, for he immediately dived again, under the next wave, and then came up within a few yards of the floating oar. A stroke or two, and he was alongside. He seized the man, and held up one arm as a signal. In a moment the rope tightened, and they moved towards shore. When they were close to the edge of the breaking waves, Jim held up his hand, and the strain stopped. "Now," he said to the man, "the moment they begin to pull, leave go of the oar, and throw your arms round me." He waited until a wave, bigger than ordinary, approached, and, just as it began to pass under him, gave the signal. Higher and higher they seemed to rise, then they were dashed down with a tremendous shock. There was a moment's confusion as they were swept along in the white water. Jim felt a terrific strain, and it seemed to him that the rope would cut him in sunder. Then he was seized by a dozen strong arms, and carried high and dry, before the next wave could reach him. For a minute or two he was scarce conscious. The breath had been almost knocked out of his body, with the break of the wave, and the rushing water seemed still singing in his ears. "Are you hurt, my boy? Are you hurt, James?" were the first words he clearly heard. "No, I think I am all right," he said, trying to sit up. "Is the other fellow all right?" "He has broke his arm," one of the fishermen, who had just helped the man to his feet, replied. "He may be thankful it's no worse." James was now helped to his feet. "I am all right," he repeated to Mr. Wilks, "except that I feel as if I had a hot iron round my body. That rope has taken the skin off all round me, I fancy, and doesn't it smart, just, with the salt water!" "Oh, James, how could you do it?" a girl's voice said suddenly. The fishermen drew aside, and Aggie Linthorne pressed forward. The squire had gone into her schoolroom and had said: "Mrs. Walsham, I think you had better give up your lessons for the morning, and get home. It is blowing a gale now, and we shall probably have the rain down before long. I will walk down with you. The wind is dead on the shore, and it will be a grand sight." Aggie at once set her mind on going, too; but the squire refused, until Mrs. Walsham suggested that, if it came on wet, Aggie could stop at her house until it cleared up, or, if necessary, till morning. Whereupon, the squire had given way, and the three had started together for Sidmouth, leaving Mrs. Walsham at her house as they passed. The others had struggled down, against the wind, until they came within sight of the sea. The first boat had just been run safely on shore when they arrived, and Aggie gave a cry, and put her hands over her face, as the second boat was seen to capsize. "Cling to me, Aggie," the squire said. "See, they are rushing in the water to save them. They will have them, yet!" At the cheer which broke out from the spectators, clustering thickly now, as the first of the shipwrecked crew was brought to shore, Aggie looked out again. It was a sight she never forgot. With the great waves crashing down on the shore, and the line of straggling figures, waist deep in the white foam, in which were scattered, here and there, portions of the boat, oars, sails, and nets. "Well done, well done!" the squire exclaimed. "They have dragged up three of them. I don't know whether there are any more." "Yes, yes, look!" Aggie cried; "there, out in the waves--there, I can see a head. That's just about where I was nearly drowned. Oh, grandpapa, take me away, I can't look at it." "There's someone going out to save him, Aggie. Listen to the cheer." Aggie looked again. "Oh, grandpapa, stop him, stop him!" she cried, "it's James." But at the same moment the plunge was made, and the figure lost to sight. Aggie threw her arms round her grandfather, and hid her face. "I can't look, I can't look," she cried. "Tell me about it." "There, he is up; bravo!" the squire exclaimed, almost as excited as she was. "He has dived again, dear,"--then, after a pause--"there he is close to him. He has got him, Aggie! Now he is waving his hand; now they are tightening the rope; now he is waving his hand again, and they are waiting. There!" There was a pause, which seemed to the girl to be endless, then the squire cried: "They have got them out, both of them;" and a loud cheer broke from all standing round. "Come along, grandpapa, let us go down to them." "Stay a moment, my dear. They may be hurt. It's better you should not go." The girl stood, with her hands clasped, gazing at the fishermen grouped on the shore, stooping over the prostrate figures. Then one of them stood up and waved his hand, and the spectators knew that all was well. Then the girl ran down to join them. "Why, Aggie!" James exclaimed in astonishment, as she pressed forward. "Why, my dear, what brings you here in this storm? Whatever will the squire say?" "The squire has brought her down himself," Mr. Linthorne said, following closely behind his granddaughter; "and he is glad he did, James, for she has seen a grand sight. "You are a fine fellow;" and he wrung the lad's hand. "A grand fellow, Wilks, isn't he?" "I always said so, squire," the old soldier said, his face beaming with satisfaction; "but now, let us get him home, and Aggie, too. The child will be blown away." But, for a minute or two, they could not carry James off, so closely did the men and women press round him, and shake him by the hand. At last they got him away, and, escorted by a crowd of cheering boys, led him back to his mother's. "Your son is a hero, Mrs. Walsham!" the squire exclaimed as they entered; "but don't talk to him now, but mix him a glass of hot grog. "Wilks, you get him between the blankets directly. I will tell his mother all about it, while she is mixing the grog. "Hallo, Aggie! Why, bless the child, she's fainted." The girl had borne up till they reached the house, towards which the wind had blown her along, as she clung to her grandfather's arm; but the excitement had been too much for her, and, the instant they entered the room, she had dropped into an armchair, and at once lost consciousness. Mrs. Walsham kept her presence of mind, in spite of her bewilderment at these sudden occurrences. She at once laid the girl on the sofa, removed her dripping bonnet and cloak, and poured a few drops of brandy between her lips, while she set the squire to work, to chafe her hands. Aggie soon opened her eyes, and recovered her consciousness. "Don't try to get up, Aggie," Mrs. Walsham said. "You are faint and shaken with all this excitement. Your grandpapa and I were two very foolish people, to let you come out. "Now, Mr. Wilks, the best thing you can do, is to find a boy outside, and send him up to the Hall, with a message that the carriage is to come down directly. "I think, Mr. Linthorne, she had better get back home. I should be glad enough, as you know, to keep her here for the night; but this house is rocking with the wind, now, and she would not be likely to get any sleep here. I will run up and see how James is, and if he is all right, I will come up with her and stop the night. She is very much shaken, and had better not be alone." Mrs. Walsham soon came downstairs again, and said that James said he never felt better in his life, and that, by all means, she was to go up to the Hall. She then set about and prepared a cup of tea, which greatly restored Aggie, and, by the time the carriage arrived, the girl was able to walk to the gate. Mr. Wilks had offered to remain with James, but the latter would not hear of it. The lad was, indeed, well pleased to hear that they were all going up to the Hall, as thereby he escaped hearing any more of his own praises. Besides, he was most anxious to get down to the beach again, for no one could say what might take place there before morning. As soon, therefore, as he heard the door close, he jumped out of bed, and when, peeping through the blinds, he saw the carriage drive off with its four occupants, he at once began to dress. He felt bruised and sore from the blows he had received, and a red wheal round his chest, beneath the arms, showed where the rope had almost cut into the flesh. However, he soon dressed himself, and descended the stairs, went into the kitchen, and told the astonished girl that he was going out; then, having made a hasty meal of bread and cold meat, he put on his oilskins again, and started for the shore. He did not, however, wait long. So heavy was the sea, now, that nothing whatever could be done should any vessel drive ashore, and, as for the fisher boats, the sailors shook their heads as they spoke of them. "They were farther away to the west, so the chaps as got ashore tells us. They may have got in, somewhere, before it got to the worst. If not, it must have gone hard with them." Finding that there was nothing to be done, and that he was much more stiff and bruised than he had believed, Jim made his way back again, and turned into bed; where he soon fell asleep, and did not wake until the following morning. One of the grooms had come down from the Hall, at six o'clock, to inquire how he was, and the message given by the girl, that he had been out, but that he had come back and was now sound asleep, satisfied Mrs. Walsham, and enabled her to devote her undivided attention to her charge, who needed her care more than her son. Before night, indeed, the squire had sent down to Sidmouth for Dr. Walsham's successor, who said that Aggie was very feverish, and must be kept perfectly quiet for some days. He sent her up a soothing draught, and Mrs. Walsham sat up with her all night. She slept but little, and talked almost incessantly, sometimes rambling a little. The first thing in the morning, the doctor was again sent for, and on his recommendation the squire at once sent off a man, on horseback, to Exeter, for the leading physician of that town. When he arrived, late in the afternoon, Aggie was somewhat quieter, and his report was more cheering. "Her pulse is very high," he said; "but Mr. Langford tells me that it is not so rapid as it was in the morning, and that he thinks the symptoms are abating. Undoubtedly, it is a sharp feverish attack, brought on by excitement and exposure. A very little more, and it would have been a case of brain fever, but I trust now that it will soon pass off. The sedatives that have been administered are taking effect, and I trust she will soon fall asleep. "As you requested, I have made my arrangements for staying here tonight, and I trust that, by the morning, we shall have her convalescent." Mr. Wilks had gone down, the first thing in the morning, to see James, and found him up and about as usual. He was very greatly concerned, at hearing that Aggie had passed a bad night, and came four times up to the Hall, during the day, to inquire about her; and on his last visit, late in the evening, he was told that she was sleeping quietly, and that the doctor had every hope that she would wake, in the morning, free from fever. This proved to be the case; but she was ordered to keep her bed for a day or two. On the morning after the storm, the wind had gone down much, although a tremendous sea was still breaking on the shore. Messages arrived, in the course of the day, to say that all the missing boats, with one exception, had succeeded in gaining the shore before the storm was full on. The missing boat was never heard of again. Two days later, James Walsham had strolled up the hill to the east of the town, and was lying, with a book before him, in a favourite nook of his looking over the sea. It was one of the lovely days which sometimes come late in autumn, as if the summer were determined to show itself at its best, before leaving. It could not be said that James was studying, for he was watching the vessels passing far out at sea, and inwardly moaning over the fact that he was destined for a profession for which he had no real liking, instead of being free to choose one of travel and adventure. Presently, he heard voices behind him. The position, in which he was lying, was a little distance down on the slopes, on the seaward side of the path, and, as a screen of bushes grew behind it, he could not be seen by anyone passing along. "All the men, with their pistols and cutlasses, are to assemble here at ten o'clock tonight, Johnson. But do not give them orders till late, and let them come up, one by one, so as not to attract attention. Lipscombe's men are to assemble at the same hour, and march to meet us. This time, I think, there is no mistake. The cargo is to be landed where I told you. It will be high tide at twelve o'clock, and they are sure to choose that hour, so that the cutter can run close in. I have sent off a man on horseback to Weymouth, for the revenue cutter to come round. If she's in time, we shall catch that troublesome lugger, as well as her cargo. She has been a thorn in our side for the last year. This time, I do hope we shall have her." The speakers then moved on out of hearing, but James Walsham recognized the voice, as that of the revenue officer commanding the force at Sidmouth. Smuggling was, at that time, carried on on a large scale along the coast, and there were frequent collisions between those engaged in it and the revenue officers. The sympathies of the population were wholly with the smugglers, and the cheating of the revenue was not at all considered in the light of a crime. Many of the fishermen, from time to time, took a hand in smuggling cruises, and the country people were always ready to lend assistance in landing and carrying the cargoes. When out in their boats at night, James had often heard the fishermen tell stories of their smuggling adventures, and more than once he had been with them, when they had boarded a lugger laden with contraband, to warn them that the revenue cutter was on the cruising ground, and it would not be safe to attempt to run cargo at present. He now determined, at once, that he would warn the smugglers of their danger. The question was, where was the cargo to be run? The officer had not mentioned the spot, but, as the force from the next station to the east was to cooperate, it must be somewhere between the two. Waiting till the speakers must have gone well along the cliff, he rose to his feet, and returned to Sidmouth. He thought, at first, of telling some of the fishermen what he had heard, but as, in the event of an affray, it might come out how the smugglers had been warned of the intention of the revenue officers, he thought there would be less risk in giving them warning himself. He knew every path down the cliff for miles, and trusted that he should be able to make his way down, and give the boats notice of their danger, before the revenue men reached the shore. At nine o'clock he dressed himself, in the rough sailor's suit he wore when he went out with the fishermen, and started along the cliff. For some distance he kept well inland, as the officer might have placed a man on the lookout, to stop anyone going towards the scene of action. The spot he thought the most likely was a mile and a half along the shore. There was a good landing place, and an easy path up the cliff, and he knew that cargoes had been more than once run here. Accordingly, when he reached this spot, he sat down among some bushes on the edge of the cliff, and waited for some sort of signal. Half an hour later, he heard the tramp of a number of men, passing along behind him. "There go the revenue men," he thought to himself. "I suppose they are going to meet those coming the other way." An hour passed without further sound, and James began to get uneasy. If this was the spot fixed for the landing, some of the country people ought to be arriving, by this time, to help to carry off the cargo. They might, for aught he knew, be already near, waiting for the signal before they descended the path. No doubt the revenue men would be lying in wait, a short distance off, and would allow the friends of the smugglers to go down to the water, without letting them know of their presence. He kept his eyes fixed on the water to the east, watching anxiously for the appearance of a light. Presently he started. Immediately in front of him, about a mile at sea, a bright light was shown. In a second, it disappeared. Three times it flashed out, and then all was dark. The night was a very dark one. There was no moon, and the stars were obscured, and although he strained his eyes to the utmost, he could not make out the vessel from which the light had been shown. "How foolish to show such a bright light!" he said to himself. "It would have been almost sure to attract the attention of anyone on the watch." He made his way to the path, and descended to the edge of the water, and waited, expecting momentarily to be joined by people from above. But no one came. He strained his ears listening for the fall of approaching oars; but all was silent. Half an hour passed, and then it flashed across him that the signal must have been made to deceive the revenue men, and to cause them to assemble at that spot, and so leave the point really determined upon free for operations. With an exclamation of disgust at his own stupidity, in having been deceived, James ran up the path again at the top of his speed, and then took the road along the cliff. For two miles, he ran without interruption, and then saw a dark mass in front of him. He turned off, instantly, to the left. Doubtless he had been heard approaching, for two or three men detached themselves from the rest, and started to cut him off. James ran straight inland, and in the darkness soon lost sight of his pursuers. Then he turned, and made for the cliff again. Two or three hundred yards farther along, there was another path to the shore, and this he had no doubt, now, was the one the smugglers were about to use. He struck the cliff within a few yards of the spot. In an instant, two men jumped up and seized him. "Who are you?" For an instant, James thought that his assailants were revenue men, but, even in the darkness, he saw that they were countrymen. "Quick!" he said. "The revenue men are close at hand. They are watching, two or three hundred yards along. Listen! Here they come." A tramping of feet coming rapidly along the cliff was clearly heard, and the men, with an oath, released their hold and ran off, giving a loud whistle, and made for their carts, which were stationed a few hundred yards inland. James dashed down the path, shouting at the top of his voice. He had not gone many yards before he met a number of men, coming up with tubs of spirits on their shoulders. "Throw them down," he cried, "and make along the shore. The revenue men are close behind." His advice was taken at once. The tubs were thrown down, and went leaping and bounding down to the shore, while the men followed James, at full speed, down the path. Their pursuers were close behind. There was no longer any use in concealment. Their officer shouted to them to press forward at full speed, while, from the beach below, a hubbub of voices suddenly broke out, and, at the same moment, a blue light was lit on the cliff above. "Beat them back, my lads," one of the smugglers was shouting, as James ran down to the little crowd of men standing near two boats. "We are five to one against them. Come on." "Surrender in the king's name," the revenue officer shouted, as he rushed forward, followed by his men. The answer was a pistol shot, and, in a moment, a furious melee began. The advantage in numbers was all on the side of the smugglers. Those who had landed with the kegs were all armed with pistol and cutlass, and the countrymen had heavy sticks and bludgeons. The ten revenue men would have been overpowered, but suddenly a shout was heard, and another party of sailors ran up along the shore, and joined in the fray. It was the detachment from the other station, which had been waiting, at some little distance along the shore, for the signal from above. "To the boats, lads," the leader of the smugglers shouted. "We are caught in a trap." The smugglers rushed to the boats, and James, who was standing by the water's edge, leaped on board with them. Most of the country people fled at once along the shore, pursued by some of the revenue men, while the others made a rush for the boats. These had been kept afloat a few yards from the shore. Grapnels had been dropped over their sterns, and, as the men in charge hauled out the moment the fight began, they were in water shoulder deep when the smugglers scrambled on board. The revenue men dashed in after them, and strove to hold the boats; but they were beaten off with oars and cutlasses, and the boats were soon hauled out into deep water. The grapnels were lifted, and the men, many of whom were wounded more or less severely in the fray, got out their oars and pulled to the lugger, amid a dropping fire of pistol shots from shore.	{ "id": "17766" }
7	: Pressed.	Many and deep were the maledictions uttered, as the smugglers climbed on board their vessel; but their captain said cheerily: "Never mind, lads, it might have been worse. It was only the first cargo of tubs, and half of those weren't ashore. The lace and silk are all right, so no great harm is done. Set to work, and get up sail as soon as you can. Likely enough there is a cutter in the offing; that blue light must have been a signal. They seem to have got news of our landing, somehow." The crew at once set to work to get up sail. Three or four of the countrymen, who had, like James, got on board the boats, stood in a group looking on, confused and helpless; but James lent his assistance, until the sails were hoisted and the craft began to move through the water. "Now, then," the captain said, "let us go below and look at the wounds. We daren't show a light, here on deck." The wounds were, for the most part, slashes and blows with cutlasses; for in the darkness and confusion of the fight, only two of the bullets had taken effect. One of the smugglers had fallen, shot through the head, while one of those on board had his arm broken by a pistol ball. "Now for our passengers," the captain said, after the wounds had been bandaged. "Who are you?" and he lifted a lantern to James's face. "Why, it is young Mr. Walsham!" he exclaimed in surprise. James knew the man now, for the lugger had several times put in at Sidmouth, where, coming in as a peaceable trader, the revenue officers, although well aware of the nature of her vocation, were unable to touch her, as vessels could only be seized when they had contraband on board. "Why, what brings you into this affair, young master?" James related the conversation he had overheard, and his determination to warn the smugglers of their danger. "I should have managed it, in plenty of time, if I had known the exact spot on which you were going to land; but I saw a signal light, two miles down the coast, and that kept me there for half an hour. It struck me, then, it was a ruse to attract the officers from the real spot of landing, but though I ran as hard as I could, I was only just before them." "Thank you heartily," the smuggler said. "I expect you saved us from a much worse mess than we got into. I have no doubt they meant to capture the tubs, as they were loaded, without raising an alarm; and the fellows on the shore would have come up quietly, and taken us by surprise as we were landing the last boat loads. Thanks to you, we have got well out of it, and have only lost one of our hands, and a score or so of tubs." "You can't put me ashore, I suppose?" James said. "That I can't," the smuggler replied. "I have no doubt that cutter from Weymouth is somewhere outside us, and we must get well off the coast before morning. If we give her the slip, I will send you off in a boat sometime tomorrow. I must go ashore, myself, to make fresh arrangements for getting my cargo landed." James went on deck again. The breeze was light, and the lugger was slipping along quietly through the water. He could faintly see the loom of the cliffs on his right, and knew that the lugger was running west, keeping as close inshore as she could, to avoid the cutter watching for her outside. He wondered what they would say at home, when it was found that he was missing; but consoled himself by thinking that his mother, who was still up at the Hall, would no doubt suppose that he had gone out for a night's fishing, as he had often done before, and that, as she was away, he had forgotten to leave word with the servant. Suddenly, a blue light burned out on the top of the cliff. An angry exclamation broke from the captain, who was standing at the helm. "Confound it!" he exclaimed. "They have caught sight of us from the cliff, and are signalling our whereabouts to the cutter." As he spoke, he turned the vessel's head seaward, and, for a quarter of an hour, sailed straight out. "Now," he said quietly, "I think we must be out of sight of those fellows on shore. Get her on the other tack, lads, but be as quiet as you can about it. There's no saying how close the cutter may be to us." The great sails were lowered, as the boat's head paid off to the east. The yards were shifted to the other sides of the masts, and the sails hoisted again, and the lugger began to retrace her way back along the coast. "It's just a chance, now," the captain said to James, who was standing close by him, "whether the commander of the cutter guesses, or not, that we shall change our course. He will know we are likely enough to do it." "What should you do if you were in his place?" James said. "I should run straight out to sea, and lay to, eight or ten miles off. He would be able to make us out then at daylight, whichever course we take; whereas, by trying to follow in the dark, he would run the chance of missing us altogether. I wish the wind would get up a bit. We are not moving through the water more than three knots an hour, and it's dying away. However, I fancy it will blow up again in the morning." "Do you know whether she is faster than you are?" James asked. "There is not much difference," the captain replied. "If the wind is strong, we have the legs of her; but in a light breeze, she is the fastest. She has chased us half a dozen times already, but we have always given her the slip." "Then, even if she does run out to sea, as you say," James said, "we ought to be safe, as we should be a dozen miles or so along the coast." "Yes, but not that ahead of her," the captain answered, "for she would be so much to the seaward. Still, that would be far enough; but she will begin to fire long before we are in range, and will bring any other king's ship within hearing down on us. However, I daresay we shall give her the slip, as we have done before." The hours passed slowly. The wind continued to drop, until the vessel scarcely moved through the water, and, after a while, the sweeps were got out, and were worked until the day broke. All eyes were on the lookout for the cutter, as the day dawn began to steal over the sky. "There she is, sure enough," the captain exclaimed at length, "lying to on the watch, some eight miles to the west. She must have seen us, for we are against the light sky; but, like, ourselves, she is becalmed." It was a quarter of an hour, however, before the position of the cutter was seen to change. Then her head was suddenly turned east. "She has got the wind," the captain said. "Now we only want a good breeze, and you'll have a lively day of it, lads." From the time when she had turned, the lugger had made only about eight miles along the coast to the east, and an equal distance seaward, for the tide had set against her. The morning was bright and clear, the sea was perfectly smooth. As yet, the sails hung idly down, but there were dark lines on the water that showed that a breeze was coming. "We shall have plenty of wind presently," the skipper said. "See how light the sky is to the south. There will be white tops on the waves in an hour or two. "Here comes a flaw. Haul in your sheets, lads, now she begins to move." The puff did not last long, dying away to nothing in a few minutes, and then the lugger lay immovable again. The men whistled, stamped the deck impatiently, and cast anxious glances back at the cutter. "She is walking along fast," the skipper said, as he examined her through a glass. "She has got the wind steady, and must be slipping along at six knots an hour. This is hard luck on us. If we don't get the breeze soon, it will be a close thing of it." Another quarter of an hour passed without a breath of wind ruffling the water. The cutter was fully two miles nearer to them than when she had first been seen, and was holding the wind steadily. "Here it comes, lads," the skipper said cheerfully. "Another ten minutes, and we shall have our share." The time seemed long, indeed, before the dark line on the water reached the lugger, and there was something like a cheer, from the crew, as the craft heeled slightly over, and then began to move through the water. It was the true breeze this time, and increased every moment in force, till the lugger was lying well over, with a white wave at her bow. But the cutter had first gained by the freshening breeze, and James Walsham, looking back at her, judged that there were not more than four miles of water between the boats. The breeze was nearly due west, and, as the lugger was headed as close as she would lie to it, the cutter had hauled in her sheets and lay up on the same course, so that they were now sailing almost parallel to each other. "If we could change places," the skipper said, "we should be safe. We can sail nearer the wind than she can, but she can edge away now, and has all the advantage of us." James had already perceived this, and wondered that the lugger did not pay off before the wind, so as to make a stern chase of it. "I want to get a few miles farther out," the skipper said. "Likely enough there is another cutter somewhere inshore. It is quite enough to have one of these fellows at one's heels." Another half hour and the cutter, edging in, was little over three miles distant. Then the skipper gave the word, the helm was put down, the sheets slackened off, and, in a minute, the lugger was running dead before the wind with her sails boomed out, one on either side. The cutter followed her example, and hoisted a large square sail. The wind was blowing fresh now, and the sea was getting up. Not a cloud was to be seen in the sky, and the sun shone brightly on the white heads which were beginning to show on the water. The lugger was tearing along, occasionally throwing a cloud of spray over her bows, and leaving a track of white water behind her. "I think she still gains on us," the captain said to the mate, who had taken the helm. "Ay, she is gaining," the sailor agreed, "but the wind is freshening every minute. She can't carry that topsail much longer. It's pressing her bows under now." "She will go almost as fast without it," the skipper said. The commander of the cutter seemed to be of the same opinion, for, just as he spoke, the topsail was seen to flutter, and then descended to the deck. It was a quarter of an hour before the skipper spoke again. "I think we just about hold our own," he said. "I didn't think the Polly could have held her running." "She couldn't, in a light wind," the mate replied; "but with this wind, it will want a fast boat to beat her." The hands were now set to work, shifting the kegs further aft. "That's better," the skipper said presently. "I am sure we are gaining ground, and our masts will stand it, if the cutter's will." With her stern low in the water, the lugger was now tearing along at a tremendous pace. Stout as were her masts, and strong the stays, James Walsham wondered at their standing the strain of the great brown sails, as they seemed, at times, almost to lift her bodily out of the water. Buoyant as the craft was, the waves broke over her bows and flooded her decks, and sheets of spray flew over her. The cutter, with her sharper bows and all her sail forward, was feeling it still more severely, and the spirits of all on board the lugger rose rapidly, as it was evident that they were dropping their pursuers. Suddenly, the gaff of the cutter's mainsail was seen to droop, and the boom was hauled on board. "I thought it would be too much for them," the skipper said exultantly. "They are going to reef." "We had better reef down too, I think," the mate said. "She has had as much as she could bear for some time." "I'll hold on ten minutes longer," the skipper said. "Every half mile counts." But before that time was up, the sails were one after another reefed, for the wind continued to freshen. The sky was still cloudless, but there was a misty light in the air, and a heavy sea was beginning to run. Suddenly, a gun flashed out from the cutter. The skipper uttered an oath. Their pursuer was more than three miles astern, and he knew that she could only be firing as a signal. There were several large ships in sight on their way up or down the Channel. To these, little attention had been paid. The skipper shaded his eyes with a hand, and gazed earnestly at a large ship on the weather beam, some four miles away. "That is a frigate, sure enough," he exclaimed. "We are fairly caught between them. "Haul in the sheets, lads, we will have a try for it yet." The lugger was brought sharp up into the wind, and was soon staggering along seaward, with the lee bulwark almost under water. The cutter instantly lowered her square sail, and followed her example, continuing to fire a gun every minute. All eyes were turned towards the frigate, which was now on the port beam. "We shall cross two miles to windward of her," the skipper said. "If she keeps on her course, a quarter of an hour will do it, but she is sure to notice the guns. The wind will take them down to her. "Ah, there she goes." As he spoke, a puff of smoke darted out from the frigate's bow. Her sails fluttered, and her head bore round, until she was on the same tack as the lugger. The latter was now about equidistant from her two pursuers. The cutter and the lugger were nearly abreast, but the former, being to windward, could edge down. The frigate was three miles to leeward, but she was fully a mile ahead. "There is no way out of it," the skipper said bitterly. "In a light wind we could run away from the frigate, but with this breeze we have no chance with her. Look how she is piling on sail!" The crew shared the captain's opinion. Some shook their fists and cursed vainly at their pursuers, some stood sullenly scowling, while the French portion of the crew gave way to wild outbursts of rage. Rapidly the three vessels closed in towards each other, for the cutter edged in so rapidly that the lugger was obliged to bear off towards the frigate again. As a last hope, the lugger's course was changed, and she again tried running, but the superior weight and power of the frigate brought her rapidly down. Presently a heavy gun boomed out, and a shot came dancing along the water, a hundred yards away. "Lower the sails," the skipper said. "It is no use going farther. The inside of a prison is better than the bottom of the sea, anyhow." Down came the sails, and the lugger lay rolling heavily in the waves, as the frigate bore down upon her with a white roll of water on her stem. "Get ready, lads," the skipper said. "There is just one chance yet. She will run by us. The instant she is past, up sail again. We shall be a mile away before they can get her round into the wind again. If she doesn't cripple us with her shot, we may weather her yet. We needn't mind the cutter." The frigate came foaming along, the crew busy in taking sail off her. The instant she had passed, and was preparing to round to, the sails of the lugger flew up like magic, and she was soon tearing along almost in the eye of the wind, as if to meet the cutter, which was running down towards her. "Down below, lads, every man of you," the captain shouted. "We shall have a broadside in a minute." In a moment, the deck was clear of all save the skipper and his mate, who stood at the tiller. The frigate swept slowly round, and then, as her guns came to bear, shot after shot was fired at the lugger, already three-quarters of a mile to the windward. The shot hummed overhead, one struck the water alongside, a yard or two away, but still she was untouched. "Some of her shots went as near the cutter as they did to us," the skipper said. "She won't fire again." They were now fast approaching the cutter, which, when she was within a quarter of a mile, changed her course and was brought up again into the wind, firing the four guns she carried on her broadside as she came round. The lugger's head was paid off, and this placed the cutter on her starboard quarter, both going free. The former was travelling the faster, but a gun was fired from the cutter's bow, and the shot struck splinters from the lugger's quarter. The crew were on deck again now. "Train that gun over the stern," the skipper said. "If we can knock her mast out of her, we are saved. If not, they will have us yet." He had scarcely spoken when there was a crash. A shot from the cutter had struck the mizzen mast, a few feet above the deck, and the mast and sail fell over to leeward. There was a cry of rage and dismay. "Luck's against us," the skipper said bitterly. "Down with the sail, lads. This time it is all up with us." The sail was lowered, and the lugger lay motionless in the water, until the cutter came up and lay within fifty yards of her. A boat was at once lowered, and an officer was rowed to the lugger. "So we have caught you, my friends, at last," he said, as he sprang on board. "You wouldn't have done it, if it had not been for the frigate," the skipper said. "No; I will say your craft sails like a witch," the officer replied. "I wish we could have done it without her. It will make all the difference to us. The frigate will get the lion's share of the prize. What is the value of your cargo?" "Two hundred kegs of brandy," the skipper replied, "and fifteen hundred pounds' worth of lace and silks." "A good prize," the officer said. "Not your own, I hope, for you have made a brave chase of it." "No," the skipper answered. "Fortunately, I only took a very small share this time. It's bad enough to lose my boat; I own two-thirds of her." "I am sorry for you," the officer said, for he was in high spirits at the success of the chase, and could afford to be pleasant. "Here comes a boat from the frigate. You played them a rare trick, and might have got off, if it hadn't been for that lucky shot of ours. "I see you were just getting out a stern chaser," and he pointed to the gun. "It is well for you that you didn't fire it, as you can't be charged with armed resistance." "I wish I had fired it, for all that. It might have been my luck to cripple you." "It would have made no difference if you had," the officer replied. "The frigate would have overhauled you. With this wind she would sail five feet to your four." The boat from the frigate now came alongside. "How are you, Cotterel?" the officer said, as he stepped on board. "That was a lucky shot of yours; but I think it's lucky for the lugger that you hit her, for the captain was so savage, at that trick they played him, that I believe he would have sunk her when he came up to her again. I heard him say to the first lieutenant, 'I won't give her a chance to play me such a trick again.'" "What orders have you brought?" the other asked. "We are outward bound, so you are to put a crew on board and take her into port; but, as we are very short of hands, we will relieve you of the prisoners." All on board the lugger were at once ordered into the frigate's boat, and were rowed off to the ship. On gaining the deck, they were drawn up in line, and the captain and first lieutenant came up. The good humour of the former had been restored by the capture of the lugger. "Hallo!" he said, looking at the bandaged heads and arms of some of the men, "so you have been having a fight trying to run your cargo, I suppose. That will make it all the worse for you, when you get on shore. Now, I might press you all without giving you a choice, but I don't want unwilling hands, so I will leave it to you. Which is it to be--an English prison for two or three years, or a cruise on board the Thetis?" The greater part of the men at once stepped forward, and announced their willingness to volunteer. "Who have we here," the captain asked, looking at the three countrymen. "They are passengers, sir," the skipper of the lugger said, with a half smile. A few questions brought to light the facts of the surprise while the cargo was being landed. "Well, my lads," the captain said, "you are in the same boat with the rest. You were engaged in an unlawful enterprise, and in resisting his majesty's officers. You will get some months in prison anyhow, if you go back. You had better stay on board, and let me make men of you." The countrymen, however, preferred a prison to a man o' war. James Walsham had been turning over the matter in his mind. He had certainly taken no part in the fray, but that would be difficult to prove, and he could not account for his presence except by acknowledging that he was there to warn them. It would certainly be a case of imprisonment. Surely, it would be better to volunteer than this. He had been longing for the sea, and here an opportunity opened for him for abandoning the career his mother intended for him, without setting himself in opposition to her wishes. Surely she would prefer that he should be at sea for a year or two to his being disgraced by imprisonment. He therefore now stepped forward. "I do not belong to the lugger's crew, sir, and had nothing to do with running their cargo, though I own I was on the spot at the time. I am not a sailor, though I have spent a good deal of time on board fishing boats. Mr. Horton, whom I see there, knows me, and will tell you that I am a son of a doctor in Sidmouth. But, as I have got into a scrape, I would rather serve than go back and stand a trial." "Very well, my lad," the captain said. "I like your spirit, and will keep my eye on you." The three countrymen and four of the French sailors, who declined to join the Thetis, were taken back to the cutter, and the Thetis at once proceeded on her way down channel. James had given a hastily scribbled line, on the back of an old letter which he happened to have in his pocket, to the men who were to be taken ashore, but he had very little hope that it would ever reach his mother. Nor, indeed, did it ever do so. When the cutter reached Weymouth with the lugger, the men captured in her were at once sent to prison, where they remained until they were tried at assizes three months afterwards; and, although all were acquitted of the charge of unlawful resistance to the king's officers, as there was no proof against any of the six men individually, they were sentenced to a year's imprisonment for smuggling. Whether Jim's hurriedly written letter was thrown overboard, or whether it was carried in the pocket of the man to whom he gave it until worn into fragments, James never knew, but it never reached his mother. The news that James was missing was brought to her upon the day after the event by Mr. Wilks. He had, as usual, gone down after breakfast to report how Aggie was getting on, with a message from his mother that her charge was now so completely restored that it was unnecessary for her to stay longer at the Hall, and that she should come home that evening at her usual time. Hearing from the girl that James had not returned since he went out at nine o'clock on the previous evening, the old soldier sauntered down to the beach, to inquire of the fishermen in whose boat James had gone out. To his surprise, he found that none of the boats had put to sea the evening before. The men seemed less chatty and communicative than usual. Most of them were preparing to go out with their boats, and none seemed inclined to enter into a conversation. Rather wondering at their unusual reticence, Mr. Wilks strolled along to where the officer of the revenue men was standing, with his boatswain, watching the fishermen. "A fine morning, lieutenant." "Yes," the latter assented. "There will be wind presently. Have you heard of the doings of last night?" "No," Mr. Wilks said in surprise, "I have heard nothing. I was just speaking to the fishermen, but they don't seem in as communicative a mood as usual this morning." "The scamps know it is safest for them to keep their mouths shut, just at present," the officer said grimly. "I have no doubt a good many of them were concerned in that affair last night. We had a fight with the smugglers. Two of my men were shot and one of theirs, and there were a good many cutlass wounds on each side. We have taken a score of prisoners, but they are all country people who were assisting in the landing; the smugglers themselves all got off. We made a mess of the affair altogether, thanks to some fellow who rushed down and gave the alarm, and upset all the plans we had laid. "It is too provoking. I had got news of the exact spot and hour at which the landing was to take place. I had my men all up on the cliff, and, as the fellows came up with kegs, they were to have been allowed to get a hundred yards or so inland and would there have been seized, and any shout they made would not have been heard below. Lieutenant Fisher, with his party from the next station, was to be a little way along at the foot of the cliffs, and when the boats came with the second batch, he was to rush forward and capture them, while we came down from above. Then we intended to row off and take the lugger. There was not wind enough for her to get away. "All was going well, and the men were just coming up the cliff with the tubs, when someone who had passed us on the cliff ran down shouting the alarm. We rushed down at once, but arrived too late. They showed fight, and kept us back till Fisher's party came up; but by that time the boats were afloat, and the smugglers managed to get in and carry them off, in spite of us. We caught, as I tell you, some of the countrymen, and Fisher has taken them off to Weymouth, but most of them got away. There are several places where the cliff can be climbed by men who know it, and I have no doubt half those fishermen you see there were engaged in the business." "Then the smuggler got away?" Mr. Wilks asked. "I don't know," the lieutenant said shortly. "I had sent word to Weymouth, and I hope they will catch her in the offing. The lugger came down this way first, but we made her out, and showed a blue light. She must have turned and gone back again, for this morning at daylight we made her out to the east. The cutter was giving chase, and at first ran down fast towards her. Then the smugglers got the wind, and the last we saw of them they were running up the Channel, the cutter some three miles astern. "I would give a couple of months' pay to know who it was that gave the alarm. I expect it was one of those fishermen. As far as my men could make out in the darkness, the fellow was dressed as a sailor. But I must say good morning, for I am just going to turn in." Mr. Wilks had been on the point of mentioning that James was missing, but a vague idea that he might, in some way, be mixed up with the events of the previous night, checked the question on his lips; and yet he thought, as the officer walked away, it was not probable. Had James been foolish enough to take part in such a business, he would either have been taken prisoner, or would, after he escaped, have returned home. He had evidently not been taken prisoner, or the officer would have been sure to mention it. Much puzzled, he walked slowly back to the fishermen. Some of the boats had already pushed off. He went up to three of the men, whose boat, being higher up than the rest, would not be afloat for another quarter of an hour. "Look here, lads," he said. "My young friend Jim Walsham is missing this morning, and hasn't been at home all night. As none of the fishing boats put out in the evening he cannot have gone to sea. Can any of you tell me anything about him?" The men gave no answer. "You need not be afraid of speaking to me, you know," he went on, "and it's no business of mine whether any of the men on the shore were concerned in that affair. The lieutenant has just been telling me of last night; but hearing of that, and finding Jim is missing, I can't help thinking there is some connection between the two things. Nothing you say to me will go further, that I can promise you; but the lad's mother will be in a terrible way. I can't make it out, for I know that, if he had anything to do with this smuggling business, he would have told me. Again, if he was there and got away, he would naturally have come straight home, for his absence would only throw suspicion upon him." "Well, Mr. Wilks," the youngest of the sailors said, "I don't know nothing about it myself. No one does, so far as I know, but I have heard say this morning as how he was there or thereabouts; but don't you let out as I told you, 'cause they would want to know who I heard it from." "You can rely upon my silence, my lad, and here's half a guinea to drink my health between you. But can't you tell me a little more?" "Well, sir, they do say as how it war Mr. Jim as came running down into the middle of them on the beach, shouting the alarm, with the revenue men close at his heels. I don't say as it were he--likely enough it weren't--but that's the talk, and that's all I have heared about the matter. How he came for to know of it, or how he got there, no one knows, for sartin he has had nought to do with any landings afore. He was a lot among us, but I know as he never was told about it; for, though everyone would have trusted Jim, still, seeing how he was placed, with his mother up at the Hall, and the squire a magistrate, it was thought better as he shouldn't be let into it. Everyone on the shore here likes Jim." "But if he was there, and he hasn't been taken prisoner--and I am sure the lieutenant would have told me if he was--why shouldn't he have got home?" "We didn't know as he hadn't got home, did us, Bill?" the fisherman appealed to one of his comrades. "No," the other said. "We thought likely he had got safely away with the rest. It war a dark night, and I expect as everyone was too busy looking after himself to notice about others." "He may have been wounded," the old soldier said anxiously, "and may be in hiding in some house near the place." The fisherman was silent. Such a thing was, of course, possible. "He might that," one of the sailors said doubtfully, "and yet I don't think it. The chase was a hot one, and I don't think anyone, wounded so bad as he couldn't make his way home, would have got away. I should say as it wur more likely as he got on board one of the boats. It seems to me as though he might have come to warn us--that is to say, to warn them, I mean--just to do em a good turn, as he was always ready to do if he had the chance. But he wouldn't have had anything to do with the scrimmage, and might have been standing, quiet like, near the boats, when the other lot came along the shore, and then, seeing as the game was up, he might, likely enough, have jumped on board and gone off to the lugger." "That is possible," Mr. Wilks said. "Anyhow, I will go off at once, and make inquiries at all the houses within a mile or so of the landing place."	{ "id": "17766" }
8	: Discharged.	Contrary to his usual habits of punctuality, Mr. Wilks did not return to luncheon at the Hall, and it was two hours later before he came in, looking fagged and anxious. He had been to all the farm houses within two miles of the scene of the fight, and had ascertained, for certain, that Jim was not lying wounded at any of them. At first, his inquiries had everywhere been coldly received. There was scarce a farm house near the coast, but the occupants had relations with the smugglers, assisting with their carts and men at the landings, or having hiding places where goods could be stowed away. At first, therefore, all professed entire ignorance of the events of the previous night; but, when persuaded by the earnestness of the old soldier's manner that his mission was a friendly one, they became more communicative, and even owned that some of their men had been taken prisoners and marched to Weymouth; but none of them had heard of any wounded man being in hiding. Convinced, at last, that James must have gone off to the lugger, Mr. Wilks returned to Sidmouth, a prey to great anxiety. Everything depended now on whether the lugger was captured. If so, James would have to stand his trial for being concerned in the fight on the beach, and, as two of the revenue men had been killed, his sentence might be a heavy one. If she got away, all would be well. They would doubtless hear by letter from Jim, and it would be better that he should not return at present to Sidmouth, but should at once take up his residence in London, and commence his studies there. He met the squire just as the latter was starting for Sidmouth. "Well, Wilks, we began to think that you were lost," he said, cheerfully. "Aggie was downstairs to lunch, and was mightily offended that you should not be there at her first appearance. "But you look tired and fagged. Has anything gone wrong?" "Things have gone very wrong, squire." And he related to his friend all the news that he had gathered, and his conviction that James Walsham was on board the lugger. "This is a pretty kettle of fish," the squire said irritably. "What on earth did the boy mean by getting himself mixed up with such an affair as that?" "It is a foolish business, squire," the old soldier agreed. "But we can't expect wise heads on young shoulders, I suppose. He, somehow or other, learnt the surprise which the revenue men intended, and as most of his friends, the fishermen, would probably be concerned in it, he went to give them notice, intending, no doubt, to go quietly back again before the revenue men arrived. I don't know that he's altogether to be blamed in the matter. Most young fellows would do the same." "Well, I suppose they would," the squire agreed reluctantly; "but it is a most awkward business. If the lad gets caught, and gets two or three years' imprisonment, it will ruin his prospects in life. His mother will be broken hearted over the business, and I am sure Aggie will take it terribly to heart. They were great friends of old, though she hasn't seen much of him for the last two or three years, and, of course, that affair of the other day has made quite a hero of him." "We must hope the lugger will get safely over to France," his companion said. "Then no great harm will have been done." "We must hope so," the squire assented moodily. "Confound the young jackanapes, turning everything upside down, and upsetting us all with his mad-brain freaks." Mrs. Walsham was greatly distressed, when the news was broken to her by Mr. Wilks, and Aggie cried so that the squire, at last, said she must go straight up to bed unless she stopped, for she would be making herself ill again. When she was somewhat pacified, the matter was discussed in every light, but the only conclusion to be arrived at was, that their sole hope rested in the hugger getting safely off. "Of course, my dear madam," the squire said, "if they are taken I will do my best to get a pardon for your son. I am afraid he will have to stand his trial with the rest; but I think that, with the representations I will make as to his good character, I may get a mitigation, anyhow, of a sentence. If they find out that it was he who gave the alarm, there will be no hope of a pardon; but if that doesn't come out, one would represent his being there as a mere boyish freak of adventure, and, in that case, I might get him a free pardon. You must not take the matter too seriously to heart. It was a foolish business, and that is the worst that can be said of it." "I think it was a grand thing," Aggie said indignantly, "for him to risk being shot, and imprisoned, and all sorts of dreadful things, just to save other people." "And I think you are a goose, Aggie," the squire said. "If everyone were to go and mix themselves up in other people's business, there would be no end of trouble. I suppose next you will say that, if you heard me arranging with the constable to make a capture of some burglars, you would think it a grand thing to put on your hat to run off to warn them." "Oh, grandpapa, how can you say such a thing!" the girl said. "Burglars and smugglers are quite different. Burglars are wicked men, and thieves and robbers. Smugglers are not, they are only trying to get goods in without paying duty." "They try to rob the king, my dear, and in the eyes of the law are just as criminal as burglars. Both of them are leagued to break the law, and both will resist and take life if they are interfered with. I allow that, in general estimation, the smugglers are looked upon in a more favourable light, and that a great many people, who ought to know better, are in league with them, but that does not alter the facts of the case." The girl did not argue the question, but the squire was perfectly aware that he had in no way convinced her, and that her feeling, that James Walsham's action was a highly meritorious one, was in no way shaken. It was agreed that nothing was to be said about James's absence, and, after taking some refreshment, Mr. Wilks went down into Sidmouth again, to tell the girl at Mrs. Walsham's that she was not to gossip about James being away. Three days later, a letter was received by the squire from Richard Horton. "I am taking the opportunity of writing a few lines to you, my dear uncle, as I have a chance of sending it ashore by the revenue cutter Thistle, which is lying alongside of us. Between us, we have just captured a rascally smuggling lugger, with a cargo of lace, silk, and spirits. You will, I am sure, be surprised and grieved to hear that among the crew of the lugger was James Walsham. I could hardly believe my eyes, when I saw him in such disreputable company. It will be a sad blow for his poor mother. As we were short of hands, our captain offered the crew of the lugger the choice of shipping with us, or being sent on shore for trial. Most of them chose the former alternative, among them James Walsham, of which I was glad, as his mother will be spared the disgrace of his being placed in the dock with his associates. I need not say that if I could have obtained his release, I should have done so, knowing that you had a high opinion of him; but it was, of course, out of my power to interfere." The squire was alone in his study when he received the letter, for it was midday before the post arrived at Sidmouth, when a man from the Hall went down each day, with a bag, to fetch the letters. He rang the bell, and ordered the servant to tell Mr. Wilks he should be glad if he would step in to him. When his friend came, he handed him the letter without a word. "That settles the matter," he said, as he threw the letter angrily down upon the table. "A malicious young viper! I wish I had him here." "It is not nicely worded," the squire said gravely; "but it was an unpleasant story to have to tell." "It was not an unpleasant story for him to tell," the old soldier said hotly. "There is malice in every line of it. He speaks of the men as James's associates, talks about the disgrace he would bring on his mother. There's malice, squire, in every line of it." "I'm afraid it's a bad letter," the squire assented gravely. "It's a natural letter," Mr. Wilks said savagely. "It is written in a hurry, and he's had no time to pick and choose his words, and round off his sentences, as he generally does in his letters to you. He was so full of malicious exultation that he did not think how much he was showing his feeling, as he wrote." "It's a bad letter and a nasty letter," the squire assented; "but let that pass, now. The first question is--How are we to tell Jim's mother? Do you think it will be a relief to her, or otherwise?" "It will be a blow to know that the lugger has been captured," Mr. Wilks said--"a severe blow, no doubt, for her escape is what we have been building our hopes upon. It will be a heavy blow, too, for her to know that James is a seaman before the mast; that it will be years before she will see him again, and that all her plans for his future are upset. But I think this will be much better for her than if she knew he was a prisoner, and would have to stand a trial. "Between ourselves, squire, as far as the lad himself is concerned, I am not sure that he will be altogether sorry that events have turned out as they have. In our talks together, he has often confided to me that his own inclinations were altogether for a life of activity and adventure; but that, as his mother's heart was so set upon his following his father's profession, he had resolved upon never saying a word, to her, which would lead her to suppose that his own wishes lay in any other direction. This business will give him the opportunity he has longed for, to see the world, without his appearing in any way to thwart his mother's plans." "At any rate," the squire said, "I am heartily glad he has got off being tried. Even if I had got a free pardon for him, it would have been a serious slur upon him that he had been imprisoned, and would have been awkward for us all in the future. I think, Wilks, I will leave it to you to break it to his mother." "Very well," the other agreed. "It is an unpleasant business, squire; but perhaps I had better do it. It may console her if I tell her that, at heart, he always wanted to go to sea, and that, accustomed as he is to knock about in the fishermen's boats, he will find it no hardship on board a man o' war, and will come back, in the course of two or three years, none the worse for his cruise. She may think he will take up doctoring again after that, though I have my doubts whether he will do that. However, there is no use in telling her so. Shall I show her that letter, squire?" "No," the squire replied, "of course you can tell her what's in it; but I will keep the letter myself. I would give a good deal if he had not written it. It is certainly badly worded, though why he should feel any malice, towards the other, is more than I can tell." His companion was about to speak, but thought better of it, and, without another word, went to break the news to Mrs. Walsham. Mrs. Walsham was terribly upset. After suffering her to cry for some time in silence, Mr. Wilks said: "My dear madam, I know that this news must distress you terribly; but it may be that in this, as in all things, a providence has overruled your plans for your son, for his own good. I will tell you now what you would never have known had this affair never occurred. Jim, at heart, hates his father's profession. He is a dutiful son and, rather than give you pain, he was prepared to sacrifice all his own feelings and wishes. But the lad is full of life and energy. The dull existence of a country surgeon, in a little town like this, is the last he would adopt as his own choice; and I own that I am not surprised that a lad of spirit should long for a more adventurous life. I should have told you this long ago, and advised you that it would be well for you both to put it frankly to him that, although you would naturally like to see him following his father's profession, still that you felt that he should choose for himself; and that, should he select any other mode of life, you would not set your wishes against his. But the lad would not hear of my doing so. He said that, rather than upset your cherished plans, he would gladly consent to settle down in Sidmouth for life. I honoured him for his filial spirit; but, frankly, I think he was wrong. An eagle is not made to live in a hen coop, nor a spirited lad to settle down in a humdrum village; and I own that, although I regret the manner of his going, I cannot look upon it as an unmixed evil, that the force of circumstances has taken him out of the course marked out for him, and that he will have an opportunity of seeing life and adventure." Mrs. Walsham had listened, with a surprise too great to admit of her interrupting the old soldier's remarks. "I never dreamed of this," she said at last, when he ceased. "I cannot remember, now, that I ever asked him, but I took it for granted that he would like nothing better than to follow in his father's steps. Had I known that he objected to it, I would not for a moment have forced him against his inclinations. Of course it is natural that, being alone in the world, I should like to have him with me still, but I would never have been so selfish as to have sacrificed his life to mine. Still, though it would be hard to have parted from him in any way, it is harder still to part like this. If he was to go, he need not have gone as a common sailor. The squire, who has done so much for him, would no doubt, instead of sending him to school, have obtained a midshipman's berth for him, or a commission in the army; but it is dreadful to think of him as a common sailor, liable to be flogged." "Well, Mrs. Walsham, perhaps we may set the matter partly to rights. I will speak to the squire, and I am sure he will write to his friend at the admiralty, and have an order sent out, at once, for Jim's discharge. At the same time, it would be better that he should not return here just at present. His name may come out, at the trial of the smugglers, as being concerned in the affair, and it would be better that he should stay away, till that matter blows over. At any rate, if I were you I should write to him, telling him that you know now that he has no taste for the medical profession, and that, should he see anything that he thinks will suit him in America, you would not wish him to come home immediately, if he has a fancy for staying out there; but that, if he chooses to return, you are sure that the squire will exert himself, to give him a start in any other profession he may choose." Mrs. Walsham agreed to carry out the suggestion and, that afternoon, the squire sent off a letter to his friend at the admiralty, and three letters were also posted to James himself. The voyage of the Thetis was uneventful. Her destination was Hampton, at the opening of Chesapeake Bay, where the troops on board would join the expedition under General Braddock, which was advancing up the Potomac. When she arrived there, they found several ships of war under Commodore Keppel. Braddock's force had marched to Wills Creek, where a military post named Fort Cumberland had been formed. The soldiers on board were at once disembarked, and marched up the banks of the Potomac to join the force at Fort Cumberland. The sailors were employed in taking stores up the river in boats. James Walsham had done his best, during the voyage, to acquire a knowledge of his duties. His experience in the fishing boats was useful to him now, and he was soon able to do his work as an able-bodied seaman. His good spirits and willingness rendered him a general favourite. He was glad that he was not put in the same watch with Richard Horton, as, after their first meeting, the young lieutenant showed no signs of recognition. He was not, James found, popular among the men. He was exacting and overbearing with them, and some on board, who had served with him on his previous voyage, had many tales to his disadvantage. A fortnight after the arrival of the Thetis at Hampton, orders were issued among the ships of war for thirty volunteers for Braddock's expedition, of which the Thetis was to furnish ten. So many sent in their names, that the first lieutenant had difficulty in choosing ten, who were looked upon with envy by the rest of the ship's company; for there seemed little chance, at present, of fighting at sea, and the excitement of a march on shore, with adventures of all sorts, and encounters with the French and their Indian allies, seemed delightful to the tars. Upon the following day a ship arrived from England and, an hour afterwards, an order was passed forward that the first lieutenant wanted James Walsham upon the quarterdeck. "Walsham," he said, "an order has just come from the admiralty for your discharge, and you are to have a passage in the first ship returning, if you choose to take it. I am sorry you are leaving the ship, for I have noticed that you show great willingness and activity, and will make a first-rate sailor. Still, I suppose, your friends in England did not care about your remaining before the mast." James touched his hat and walked forward. He was scarcely surprised, for he had thought that his mother would probably ask the squire to use his influence to obtain his discharge. He scarcely knew whether he was glad or sorry. He was in a false position, and could not hope for promotion except by some lucky chance, such as was not likely to occur, of distinguishing himself. At the same time, he sighed as he thought that he must now return and take up the profession for which his mother had intended him. A quarter of an hour later, however, the ship's corporal came round and distributed the mails, and James, to his delight, found there were three letters for him. He tore open that from his mother. It began by gently upbraiding him for getting himself mixed up in the fight between the smugglers and the revenue men. "In the next place, my dear boy," she said, "I must scold you, even more, for not confiding in your mother as to your wishes about your future profession. Mr. Wilks has opened my eyes to the fact that, while I have all along been taking it for granted, that your wishes agreed with mine as to your profession, you have really been sacrificing all your own inclinations in order to avoid giving me pain. I am very thankful to him for having opened my eyes, for I should have been grieved indeed had I found, when too late, that I had chained you down to a profession you dislike. "Of course, I should have liked to have had you with me, but in no case would have had you sacrifice yourself; still less now, when I have met with such kind friends, and am happy and comfortable in my life. Therefore, my boy, let us set aside at once all idea of your becoming a doctor. There is no occasion for you to choose, immediately, what you will do. You are too old now to enter the royal navy, and it is well that, before you finally decide on a profession, you have the opportunity of seeing something of the world. "I inclose bank notes for a hundred pounds so that, if you like, you can stay for a few weeks or months in the colonies, and then take your passage home from New York or Boston. By that time, too, all talk about this affair with the smugglers will have ceased; but, as your name is likely to come out at the trial of the men who were taken, so the squire thinks it will be better for you to keep away, for a time." The rest of the letter was filled up with an account of the excitement and alarm which had been felt when he was first missed. "We were glad, indeed," she said, "when a letter was received from Richard Horton, saying that you were on board the Thetis. Mr. Wilks tells me it was an abominably spiteful letter, and I am sure the squire thinks so, too, from the tone in which he spoke this afternoon about his nephew; but I can quite forgive him, for, if it had not been for his letter, we should not have known what had become of you, and many months might have passed before we might have heard from you in America. As it is, only four or five days have been lost, and the squire is writing tonight to obtain your discharge, which he assures me there will be no difficulty whatever about." The squire's was a very cordial letter, and he, too, enclosed notes for a hundred pounds. "Mr. Wilks tells me," he said, "that you do not like the thought of doctoring. I am not surprised, and I think that a young fellow, of such spirit and courage as you have shown, ought to be fitted for something better than administering pills and draughts to the old women of Sidmouth. Tell me frankly, when you write, what you would like. You are, of course, too old for the royal navy. If you like to enter the merchant service, I have no doubt I could arrange with some shipping firm in Bristol, and would take care that, by the time you get to be captain, you should also be part owner of the ship. If, on the other hand, you would like to enter the army--and it seems to me that there are stirring times approaching--I think that, through one or other of my friends in London, I could obtain a commission for you. If there is anything else you would like better than this, you may command my best services. I never forget how much I am indebted to you for my present happiness, and, whatever I can do for you, still shall feel myself deeply your debtor." The old soldier wrote a characteristic letter. In the first place, he told James that he regarded him as a fool, for mixing up in an affair in which he had no concern whatever. Then he congratulated him on the fact that circumstances had broken the chain from which he would never otherwise have freed himself. "You must not be angry with me," he said, "for having betrayed your confidence, and told the truth to your mother. I did it in order to console her, by showing her that things were, after all, for the best; and I must say that madam took my news in the very best spirit, and I am sure you will see this by her letter to you. There is no one I honour and esteem more than I do her, and I was sure, all along, that you were making a mistake in not telling her frankly what your wishes were. Now you have got a roving commission for a time, and it will be your own fault if you don't make the best of it. There is likely to be an exciting time in the colonies, and you are not the lad I take you for, if you dawdle away your time in the towns, instead of seeing what is going on in the forest." These letters filled James with delight, and, without an hour's delay, he sat down to answer them. In his letter to the squire he thanked him most warmly for his kindness, and said that, above all things, he should like a commission in the army. He wrote a very tender and affectionate letter to his mother, telling her how much he felt her goodness in so promptly relinquishing her own plans, and in allowing him to choose the life he liked. "Thank Aggie," he concluded, "for the message she sent by you. Give her my love, and don't let her forget me." To the old soldier he wrote a gossipping account of his voyage. "It was impossible," he said, "for the news of my discharge to have come at a better moment. Thirty sailors from the fleet are going with General Braddock's force, and everyone else is envying their good luck--I among them. Now I shall go up, at once, and join the Virginian regiment which is accompanying them. I shall join that, instead of either of the line regiments, as I can leave when I like. Besides, if the squire is able to get me a commission, it would have been pleasanter for me to have been fighting here as a volunteer, than as a private in the line. "By the way, nobody thinks there will be much fighting, so don't let my mother worry herself about me; but, at any rate, a march through the great forests of this country, with a chance of a brush with the redskins, will be great fun. Perhaps, by the time it is over, I may get a letter from you saying that I have got my commission. As I hear there is a chance of a regular war between the French and us out here, the commission may be for a regiment on this side." After finishing his letters, and giving them to the ship's corporal to place in the next post bag, James said goodbye to his messmates, and prepared to go on shore. The ten men chosen for the expedition were also on the point of starting. Richard Horton was standing near, in a state of great discontent that he had not been chosen to accompany them in their expedition. James Walsham stepped up to him, and touched his hat respectfully. "I wish to thank you, Lieutenant Horton, for your extremely kind letter, telling my friends that I was on board this ship. It has been the means of my obtaining my discharge at once, instead of having to serve, for many months, before I could send the news home and obtain an answer in return." Without another word he turned and, walking to the gangway, took his place in a boat about starting with some sailors for the shore, leaving Richard Horton in a state of fury, with himself, for having been the means of obtaining James's discharge. He had already, more than once, felt uncomfortable as he thought of the wording of the letter; and that this indulgence of his spite had had the effect of restoring James's liberty, rendered him well-nigh mad with rage. On landing, James Walsham at once disposed of his sailor's clothes, and purchased a suit similar to those worn by the colonists; then he obtained a passage up the river to Alexandria, where the transports which had brought the troops were still lying. Here, one of the companies of the Virginia corps was stationed, and James, finding that they were expecting, every day, to be ordered up to Wills Creek, determined to join them at once. The scene was a busy one. Stores were being landed from the transports, teamsters were loading up their waggons, officers were superintending the operations, the men of the Virginia corps, who wore no uniform, but were attired in the costume used by hunters and backwoodsmen; namely, a loose hunting shirt, short trousers or breeches, and gaiters; were moving about unconcernedly, while a few of them, musket on shoulder, were on guard over the piles of stores. Presently a tall, slightly-built young man, with a pleasant but resolute face, came riding along, and checked his horse close to where James was standing. James noticed that the men on sentry, who had, for the most part, been sitting down on fallen logs of wood, bales, or anything else which came handy; with their muskets across their knees, or leaning beside them; got up and began pacing to and fro, with some semblance of military position. "Who is that young man?" he asked a teamster standing by. "That is Colonel Washington," the man replied, "one of the smartest of the colonial officers." "Why, he only looks two or three and twenty," James said in surprise. "He is not more than that," the man said; "but age don't go for much here, and Colonel Washington is adjutant general of the Virginian militia. Only a few months back, he made a journey with despatches, right through the forests to the French station at Port de Beuf, and, since then, he has been in command of the party which went out to build a fort, at the forks of the Ohio, and had some sharp fighting with the French. A wonderful smart young officer they say he is, just as cool, when the bullets are flying, as if sitting on horseback." James resolved, at once, that he would speak to Colonel Washington, and ask him if he could join the Virginian militia. He accordingly went up to him, and touched his hat. "If you please, sir, I am anxious to join the Virginian militia, and, as they tell me that you are adjutant general, I have come to ask you if I can do so." "I see no difficulty in it, my lad," the colonel said; "but if you have run away from home, in search of adventure, I should advise you to go back again, for we are likely to have heavy work." "I don't mind that, sir, and I have not run away. I am English. I was pressed on board a frigate, and was brought over here, but my friends in England procured my discharge, which came for me here, a fortnight after my arrival. They are, I believe, about to obtain for me a commission in a king's regiment; but, as I was here, I thought that I should like to see some service, as it may be some months before I hear that I have got my commission. I would rather if I could join as a volunteer, as I do not want pay, my friends having supplied me amply with money." "You seem to be a lad of spirit," Colonel Washington said, "and I will at once put you in the way of doing what you desire. You shall join the Virginian corps as a volunteer. Have you money enough to buy a horse?" "Yes, plenty," Jim said. "I have two hundred pounds." "Then you had better leave a hundred and fifty, at least, behind you," the colonel said. "I will direct you to a trader here, with whom you can bank it. You can get an excellent horse for twenty pounds. I asked you because, if you like, I can attach you to myself. I often want a mounted messenger; and, of course, as a volunteer, you would mess with me." "I should like it above all things," James said thankfully. "Then we will at once go to the tent of the officer commanding this company," Washington said, "and enroll you as a volunteer." On reaching the tent, Washington dismounted and led the way in. "Captain Hall," he said, "this is a young English gentleman, who will shortly have a commission in the king's army, but, in the meantime, he wishes to see a little brisk fighting, so he is to be enrolled as a volunteer in your company; but he is going to obtain a horse, and will act as a sort of aide-de-camp to me." Captain Hall at once entered James's name as a volunteer on the roll of his company. "Do you know of anyone who has a good horse for sale?" Washington asked. "Yes," the captain replied, "at least, there was a farmer here half an hour ago with a good-looking horse which he wants to sell. I have no doubt he is in the camp, still." Captain Hall went to the door of the tent, and told two of the men there to find the farmer, and tell him he had a purchaser for his horse. Ten minutes later the farmer came up, and James bought the horse, Captain Hall doing the bargaining for him. "Now," Washington said, "we will go round to the storekeeper I spoke of, and deposit the best part of your money with him. I should only take a pound or two, if I were you, for you will find no means of spending money when you once set forward, and, should anything happen to you, the Indians would not appreciate the value of those English notes of yours. You will want a brace of pistols and a sword, a blanket, and cooking pot--that is about the extent of your camp equipment."	{ "id": "17766" }
9	: The Defeat Of Braddock.	England and France were, at this time, at peace in Europe, although the troops of both nations were about to engage in conflict, in the forests of America. Their position there was an anomalous one. England owned the belt of colonies on the east coast. France was mistress of Canada in the north, of Louisiana in the south, and, moreover, claimed the whole of the vast country lying behind the British colonies, which were thus cooped up on the seaboard. Her hold, however, of this great territory was extremely slight. She had strong posts along the chain of lakes from the Saint Lawrence to Lake Superior, but between these and Louisiana, her supremacy was little more than nominal. The Canadian population were frugal and hardy, but they were deficient in enterprise; and the priests, who ruled them with a rod of iron, for Canada was intensely Catholic, discouraged any movements which would take their flocks from under their charge. Upon the other hand, the colonists of New England, Pennsylvania, and Virginia were men of enterprise and energy, and their traders, pushing in large numbers across the Alleghenies, carried on an extensive trade with the Indians in the valley of the Ohio, thereby greatly exciting the jealousy of the French, who feared that the Indians would ally themselves with the British colonists, and that the connection between Canada and Louisiana would be thereby cut. The English colonists were greatly superior to the French in number; but they laboured under the disadvantage that the colonies were wholly independent of each other, with strong mutual jealousies, which paralysed their action and prevented their embarking upon any concerted operations. Upon the other hand, Canada was governed by the French as a military colony. The governor was practically absolute, and every man capable of bearing arms could, if necessary, be called by him into the field. He had at his disposal not only the wealth of the colony, but large assistance from France, and the French agents were, therefore, able to outbid the agents of the British colonies with the Indians. For years there had been occasional troubles between the New England States and the French, the latter employing the Indians in harassing the border; but, until the middle of the eighteenth century, there had been nothing like a general trouble. In 1749 the Marquis of Galissoniere was governor general of Canada. The treaty of Aix la Chapelle had been signed; but this had done nothing to settle the vexed question of the boundaries between the English and French colonies. Meanwhile, the English traders from Pennsylvania and Virginia were poaching on the domain which France claimed as hers, ruining the French fur trade, and making friends with the Indian allies of Canada. Worse still, farmers were pushing westward and settling in the valley of the Ohio. In order to drive these back, to impress the natives with the power of France, and to bring them back to their allegiance, the governor of Canada, in the summer of 1749, sent Celoron de Bienville. He had with him fourteen officers, twenty French soldiers, a hundred and eighty Canadians, and a band of Indians. They embarked in twenty-three birch-bark canoes, and, pushing up the Saint Lawrence, reached Lake Ontario, stopping for a time at the French fort of Frontenac, and avoiding the rival English port of Oswego on the southern shore, where a trade in beaver skins, disastrous to French interests, was being carried on, for the English traders sold their goods at vastly lower prices than those which the French had charged. On the 6th of July the party reached Niagara, where there was a small French fort, and thence, carrying their canoes round the cataract, launched them upon Lake Erie. Landing again on the southern shore of the lake, they carried their canoes nine miles through the forest to Chautauqua Lake, and then dropped down the stream running out of it until they reached the Ohio. The fertile country here was inhabited by the Delawares, Shawanoes, Wyandots, and Iroquois, or Indians of the Five Nations, who had migrated thither from their original territories in the colony of New York. Further west, on the banks of the Miami, the Wabash, and other streams, was a confederacy of the Miami and their kindred tribes. Still further west, in the country of the Illinois, near the Mississippi, the French had a strong stone fort called Fort Chartres, which formed one of the chief links of the chain of posts that connected Quebec with New Orleans. The French missionaries and the French political agents had, for seventy years, laboured hard to bring these Indian tribes into close connection with France. The missionaries had failed signally; but the presents, so lavishly bestowed, had inclined the tribes to the side of their donors, until the English traders with their cheap goods came pushing west over the Alleghenies. They carried their goods on the backs of horses, and journeyed from village to village, selling powder, rum, calicoes, beads, and trinkets. No less than three hundred men were engaged in these enterprises, and some of them pushed as far west as the Mississippi. As the party of Celoron proceeded they nailed plates of tin, stamped with the arms of France, to trees; and buried plates of lead near them, with inscriptions saying that they took possession of the land in the name of Louis the Fifteenth, King of France. Many of the villages were found to be deserted by the natives, who fled at their approach. At some, however, they found English traders, who were warned at once to leave the country; and, by some of them, letters were sent to the governor of Pennsylvania, in which Celoron declared that he was greatly surprised to find Englishmen trespassing in the domain of France, and that his orders were precise, to leave no foreign traders within the limits of the government of Canada. At Chiningue, called Logstown by the English, a large number of natives were gathered, most of the inhabitants of the deserted villages having sought refuge there. The French were received with a volley of balls from the shore; but they landed without replying to the fire, and hostilities were avoided. The French kept guard all night, and in the morning Celoron invited the chiefs to a council, when he told them he had come, by the order of the governor, to open their eyes to the designs of the English against their lands, and that they must be driven away at once. The reply of the chiefs was humble; but they begged that the English traders, of whom there were, at that moment, ten in the town, might stay a little longer, since the goods they brought were necessary to them. After making presents to the chiefs, the party proceeded on their way, putting up the coats of arms and burying the lead inscriptions. At Scioto a large number of Indians were assembled, and the French were very apprehensive of an attack, which would doubtless have been disastrous to them, as the Canadians of the party were altogether unused to war. A council was held, however, at which Celoron could obtain no satisfaction whatever, for the interests of the Indians were bound up with the English. There can be no doubt that, had they been able to look into the future, every Indian on the continent would have joined the French in their effort to crush the English colonies. Had France remained master of America the Indians might, even now, be roaming free and unmolested on the lands of their forefathers. France is not a colonizing nation. She would have traded with the Indians, would have endeavoured to Christianize them, and would have left them their land and freedom, well satisfied with the fact that the flag of France should wave over so vast an extent of country; but on England conquering the soil, her armies of emigrants pressed west, and the red man is fast becoming extinct on the continent of which he was once the lord. Celoron's expedition sailed down the Ohio until it reached the mouth of the Miami, and toiled for thirteen days against its shallow current, until they reached a village of the Miami Indians, ruled over by a chief called, by the French, La Demoiselle, but whom the English, whose fast friend he was, called Old Britain. He was the great chief of the Miami confederation. The English traders there withdrew at the approach of the French. The usual council was held, and Celoron urged the chief to remove from this location, which he had but newly adopted, and to take up his abode, with his band, near the French fort on the Maumee. The chief accepted the Frenchman's gifts, thanked him for his good advice, and promised to follow it at a more convenient time; but neither promises nor threats could induce him to stir at once. No sooner, indeed, had the French departed, than the chief gathered the greater part of the members of the confederation on that spot; until, in less than two years after the visit of Celoron, its population had increased eightfold, and it became one of the greatest Indian towns of the west, and the centre of English trade and influence. Celoron reached Miami, and then returned northward to Lake Erie, and thence back to Montreal, when he reported to the governor that English influence was supreme in the valley of the Ohio. In the following year, a company was formed in Virginia for effecting a settlement in Ohio, and a party proceeded west to the village of the chief called Old Britain, by whom they were received with great friendship, and a treaty of peace was solemnly made between the English and the Indians. While the festivities, consequent on the affair, were going on, four Ottawa Indians arrived from the French, with the French flag and gifts, but they were dismissed with an answer of defiance. If, at this time, the colonists could have cemented their alliance with the Indians, with gifts similar to those with which the French endeavoured to purchase their friendship, a permanent peace with the Indians might have been established; but the mutual jealousies of the colonies, and the nature of the various colonial assemblies, rendered any common action impossible. Pennsylvania was jealous of the westward advance of Virginia, and desired to thwart rather than to assist her. The governors of New York, Pennsylvania, and Virginia were fully conscious of the importance of the Indian alliance, but they could do nothing without their assemblies. Those of New York and Pennsylvania were largely composed of tradesmen and farmers, absorbed in local interests, and animated but by two motives; the cutting down of all expenditure, and bitter and continuous opposition to the governor, who represented the royal authority. Virginia and Pennsylvania quarrelled about their respective rights over the valley of the Ohio. The assembly of New York refused to join in any common action, saying, "We will take care of our Indians, and they may take care of theirs." The states further removed from the fear of any danger, from the action of the Indians and French, were altogether lukewarm. Thus, neither in the valley of the Ohio, nor on the boundaries of the New England states, did the Indians receive their promised gifts, and, as the French agents were liberal both in presents and promises, the Indians became discontented with their new friends, and again turned their eyes towards France. Old Britain, however, remained firm in his alliance; and the English traders, by constant presents, and by selling their goods at the lowest possible rates, kept him and his warriors highly satisfied and contented. The French, in vain, tried to stir up the friendly tribes to attack Oswego on Lake Ontario, and the village of Old Britain, which were the two centres to which the Indians went to trade with the English; but they were unsuccessful until, in June, 1752, Charles Langlade, a young French trader, married to a squaw at Green Bay, and strong in influence with the tribes of that region, came down the lakes with a fleet of canoes, manned by two hundred and fifty Ottawa and Ojibwa warriors. They stopped awhile at the fort at Detroit, then paddled up the Maumee to the next fort, and thence marched through the forests against the Miamis. They approached Old Britain's village in the morning. Most of the Indians were away on their summer hunt, and there were but eight English traders in the place. Three of these were caught outside the village, the remaining five took refuge in the fortified warehouse they had built, and there defended themselves. Old Britain and the little band with him fought bravely, but against such overwhelming numbers could do nothing, and fourteen of them, including their chief, were killed. The five white men defended themselves till the afternoon, when two of them managed to make their escape, and the other three surrendered. One of them was already wounded, and was at once killed by the French Indians. Seventy years of the teaching of the French missionaries had not weaned the latter from cannibalism, and Old Britain was boiled and eaten. The Marquis of Duquesne, who had succeeded Galissoniere as governor, highly praised Langlade for the enterprise, and recommended him to the minister at home for reward. This bold enterprise further shook the alliance of the Indians with the English, for it seemed to them that the French were enterprising and energetic, while the English were slothful and cowardly, and neglected to keep their agreements. The French continued to build forts, and Dinwiddie, governor of Virginia, sent George Washington to protest, in his name, against their building forts on land notoriously belonging to the English crown. Washington performed the long and toilsome journey through the forests at no slight risks, and delivered his message at the forts, but nothing came of it. The governor of Virginia, seeing the approaching danger, made the greatest efforts to induce the other colonies to join in common action; but North Carolina, alone, answered the appeal, and gave money enough to raise three or four hundred men. Two independent companies maintained by England in New York, and one in South Carolina, received orders to march to Virginia. The governor had raised, with great difficulty, three hundred men. They were called the Virginia Regiment. An English gentleman named Joshua Fry was appointed the colonel, and Washington their major. Fry was at Alexandria, on the Potomac, with half the regiment. Washington, with the other half, had pushed forward to the storehouse at Wills Creek, which was to form the base of operations. Besides these, Captain Trent, with a band of backwoodsmen, had crossed the mountain to build a fort at the forks of the Ohio, where Pittsburgh now stands. Trent had gone back to Wills Creek, leaving Ensign Ward, with forty men, at work upon the fort, when, on the 17th of April, a swarm of canoes came down the Allegheny, with over five hundred Frenchmen, who planted cannon against the unfinished stockade, and summoned the ensign to surrender. He had no recourse but to submit, and was allowed to depart, with his men, across the mountains. The French at once set to, to build a strong fort, which they named Fort Duquesne. While the governor of Virginia had been toiling, in vain, to get the colonists to move, the French had acted promptly, and the erection of their new fort at once covered their line of communication to the west, barred the advance of the English down the Ohio valley, and secured the allegiance of all the wavering Indian tribes. Although war had not yet been declared between England and France, the colonists, after this seizure, by French soldiers, of a fort over which the English flag was flying, henceforth acted as if the two powers were at war. Washington moved forward from Wills Creek with his hundred and fifty men, and surprised a French force which had gone out scouting. Several of the French were killed, and the commander of Fort Duquesne sent despatches to France to say that he had sent this party out with a communication to Washington, and that they had been treacherously assassinated. This obscure skirmish was the commencement of a war which set two continents on fire. Colonel Fry died a few days after this fight, and Washington succeeded to the command of the regiment, and collected his three hundred men at Green Meadow, where he was joined by a few Indians, and by a company from South Carolina. The French at Duquesne were quickly reinforced, and the command was given to Coulon de Villiers, the brother of an officer who had been killed in the skirmish with Washington. He at once advanced against the English, who had fallen back to a rough breastwork which they called Fort Necessity, Washington having but four hundred men, against five hundred French and as many Indians. For nine hours the French kept up a hot fire on the intrenchment, but without success, and at nightfall Villiers proposed a parley. The French ammunition was running short, the men were fatigued by their marches, and drenched by the rain which had been falling the whole day. The English were in a still worse plight. Their powder was nearly spent, their guns were foul, and among them they had but two cleaning rods. After a parley, it was agreed that the English should march off with drums beating and the honours of war, carrying with them all their property; that the prisoners taken in the previous affair should be set free, two officers remaining with the French as hostages until they were handed over. Washington and his men arrived, utterly worn out with fatigue and famine, at Wills Creek. This action left the French masters of the whole country beyond the Alleghenies. The two mother nations were now preparing for war, and, in the middle of January, 1755, Major General Braddock, with the 44th and 48th Regiments, each five hundred strong, sailed from Cork for Virginia; while the French sent eighteen ships of war and six battalions to Canada. Admiral Boscawen, with eleven ships of the line and one frigate, set out to intercept the French expedition. The greater part of the fleet evaded him, but he came up with three of the French men of war, opened fire upon them, and captured them. Up to this time a pretence of negotiations had been maintained between England and France, but the capture of the French ships brought the negotiations to a sudden end, and the war began. A worse selection than that of Major General Braddock could hardly have been made. He was a brave officer and a good soldier, but he was rough, coarse, and obstinate. He utterly despised the colonial troops, and regarded all methods of fighting, save those pursued by regular armies in the field, with absolute contempt. To send such a man to command troops destined to fight in thick forests, against an enemy skilled in warfare of that kind, was to court defeat. As might be expected, Braddock was very soon on the worst possible terms with the whole of the colonial authorities, and the delays caused by the indecision or obstinacy of the colonial assemblies chafed him to madness. At last, however, his force was assembled at Wills Creek. The two English regiments had been raised, by enlistment in Virginia, to 700 men each. There were nine Virginian companies of fifty men, and the thirty sailors lent by Commodore Keppel. General Braddock had three aides-de-camp--Captain Robert Orme, Captain Roger Morris, and Colonel George Washington. It was the 1st of June, when James Walsham rode with Colonel Washington into the camp, and, three days later, the last companies of the Virginian corps marched in. During the next week, some of the English officers attempted to drill the Virginians in the manner of English troops. "It is a waste of time," Colonel Washington said to James, one day, when he was watching them, "and worse. These men can fight their own way. Most of them are good shots, and have a fair idea of forest fighting; let them go their own way, and they can be trusted to hold their own against at least an equal number of French and Indians; but they would be hopelessly at sea if they were called upon to fight like English regulars. Most likely the enemy will attack us in the forest, and what good will forming in line, or wheeling on a flank, or any of the things which the general is trying to drum into their heads, do to them? If the French are foolish enough to wait at Fort Duquesne until we arrive, I have no doubt we shall beat them, but if they attack us in the woods it will go hard with us." During the ten days which elapsed between his arrival and the start, James was kept hard at work, being for the most part employed galloping up and down the road, urging up the waggoners, and bringing back reports as to their position and progress. On the 10th of June the army started; 300 axemen led the way, cutting and clearing the road; the long train of pack horses, waggons, and cannon followed; the troops marched in the forest on either side, while men were thrown out on the flanks, and scouts ranged the woods to guard against surprise. The road was cut but twelve feet wide, and the line of march often extended four miles. Thus, day by day they toiled on, crossing the Allegheny Mountains, range after range; now plunging down into a ravine, now ascending a ridge, but always in the deep shadow of the forest. A few of the enemy hovered round them, occasionally killing a straggler who fell behind. On the 18th of June, the army reached a place called the Little Meadows. So weak were the horses, from want of forage, that the last marches had been but three miles a day, and, upon Washington's advice, Braddock determined to leave the heavy baggage here, with the sick men and a strong guard under Colonel Dunbar; while he advanced with 1200 men, besides officers and drivers. But the progress was still no more than three miles a day, and it was not until the 7th of July that they arrived within eight miles of the French fort. Between them lay, however, an extremely difficult country with a narrow defile, and Braddock determined to ford the Monongahela, and then cross it again lower down. The garrison of Fort Duquesne consisted of a few companies of regular troops, some hundreds of Canadians, and 800 Indian warriors. They were kept informed, by the scouts, of the progress of the English, and, when the latter approached the Monongahela, a party under Captain Beaujeu set out to meet them. His force consisted of 637 Indians, 100 French officers and soldiers, and 146 Canadians, in all about 900 men. At one o'clock in the day, Braddock crossed the Monongahela for the second time. The troops had, all the day, been expecting the attack and had prepared for it. At the second ford the army marched in martial order, with music playing and flags flying. Once across the river they halted for a short time, and then again continued their advance. Braddock made every disposition for preventing a surprise. Several guides, with six Virginian light horsemen, led the way. Then came the advanced column, consisting of 300 soldiers under Gage, and a large body of axemen, under Sir John Sinclair, with two cannon. The main body followed close behind. The artillery and waggons moved along the road, the troops marched through the woods on either hand, numerous flanking parties were thrown out a hundred yards or more right and left, and, in the space between them and the line of troops, the pack horses and cattle made their way, as they best could, among the trees. Beaujeu had intended to place his men in ambuscade at the ford, but, owing to various delays caused by the Indians, he was still a mile away from the ford when the British crossed. He was marching forward when he came suddenly upon the little party of guides and Virginian light horsemen. These at once fell back. The Indians raised their war whoop, and, spreading right and left among the trees, opened a sharp fire upon the British. Gage's column wheeled deliberately into line, and fired volley after volley, with great steadiness, at the invisible opponents. The greater part of the Canadians bolted at once, but the Indians kept up their fire from behind the shelter of the trees. Gage brought up his two cannon and opened fire, and the Indians, who had a horror of artillery, began also to fall back. The English advanced in regular lines, cheering loudly. Beaujeu fell dead; but Captain Dumas, who succeeded him in command, advanced at the head of his small party of French soldiers, and opened a heavy fire. The Indians, encouraged by the example, rallied and again came forward, and, while the French regulars and the few Canadians who had not fled held the ground in front of the column, the Indians swarmed through the forests along both flanks of the English, and from behind trees, bushes, and rocks opened a withering fire upon them. The troops, bewildered and amazed by the fire poured into them by an invisible foe, and by the wild war whoops of the Indians, ceased to advance, and, standing close together, poured fruitlessly volley after volley into the surrounding forest. On hearing the firing, Braddock, leaving 400 men in the rear under Sir Peter Halket, to guard the baggage, advanced with the main body to support Gage; but, just as he came up, the soldiers, appalled by the fire which was mowing them down in scores, abandoned their cannon and fell back in confusion. This threw the advancing force into disorder, and the two regiments became mixed together, massed in several dense bodies within a small space of ground, facing some one way and some another, all alike exposed, without shelter, to the hail of bullets. Men and officers were alike new to warfare like this. They had been taught to fight in line against solid masses of the enemy, and against an invisible foe like the present they were helpless. The Virginians alone were equal to the emergency. They at once adopted their familiar forest tactics, and, taking their post behind trees, began to fight the Indians in their own way. Had Braddock been a man of judgment and temper, the fortunes of the day might yet have been retrieved, for the Virginians could have checked the Indians until the English troops were rallied and prepared to meet the difficulty; but, to Braddock, the idea of men fighting behind trees was at once cowardly and opposed to all military discipline, and he dashed forward on his horse, and with fierce oaths ordered the Virginians to form line. A body of them, however, under Captain Waggoner, made a dash for a huge fallen tree, far out towards the lurking places of the Indians, and, crouching behind it, opened fire upon them; but the regulars, seeing the smoke among the bushes, took them for the enemy and, firing, killed many and forced the rest to return. A few of the soldiers tried to imitate the Indians, and fight behind the trees, but Braddock beat them back with the flat of his sword, and forced them to stand with the others, who were now huddled in a mass, forming a target for the enemy's bullets. Lieutenant Colonel Burton led 100 of them towards a knoll from which the puffs came thickest, but he fell wounded, and his men, on whom the enemy instantly concentrated their fire, fell back. The soldiers, powerless against the unseen foe, for afterwards some of the officers and men who escaped declared that, throughout the whole fight, they had not seen a single Indian, discharged their guns aimlessly among the trees. They were half stupefied now with the terror and confusion of the scene, the rain of bullets, the wild yells which burst ceaselessly from their 600 savage foemen; while the horses, wild with terror and wounds, added to the confusion by dashing madly hither and thither. Braddock behaved with furious intrepidity. He dashed hither and thither, shouting and storming at the men, and striving to get them in order, and to lead them to attack the enemy. Four horses were, one after the other, shot under him. His officers behaved with equal courage and self devotion, and in vain attempted to lead on the men, sometimes advancing in parties towards the Indians, in hopes that the soldiers would follow them. Sir Peter Halket was killed, Horne and Morris, the two aides-de-camp, Sinclair the quartermaster general, Gates, Gage, and Gladwin were wounded. Of 86 officers, 63 were killed or disabled, while of non-commissioned officers and privates only 459 came off unharmed. James Walsham had been riding by the side of Washington when the fight began, and followed him closely as he galloped among the troops, trying to rally and lead them forward. Washington's horse was pierced by a ball and, staggering, fell. James leaped from his horse and gave it to the colonel, and then, seeing that there was nothing for him to do, withdrew a short distance from the crowd of soldiers, and crouched down between the trunks of two great trees growing close to each other; one of which protected him, for the most part, from the fire of the Indians, and the other from the not less dangerous fire of the English. Presently, seeing a soldier fall at a short distance from him, he ran out and picked up his musket and cartridge box, and began to fire at the bushes where the puffs of smoke showed that men were in hiding. After three hours' passive endurance of this terrible fire, Braddock, seeing that all was lost, commanded a retreat, and he and such officers as were left strove to draw off the soldiers in some semblance of order; but at this moment a bullet struck him, and, passing through his arm, penetrated his lungs, and he fell from his horse. He demanded to be left where he lay, but Captain Stewart of the Virginians, and one of his men, bore him between them to the rear. The soldiers had now spent all their ammunition, and, no longer kept in their places by their general, broke away in a wild panic. Washington's second horse had now been shot, and as, trying to check the men, he passed the trees where James had taken up his position, the latter joined him. In vain Washington and his other officers tried to rally the men at the ford. They dashed across it, wild with fear, leaving their wounded comrades, cannon, baggage, and military chest a prey to the Indians. Fortunately, only about fifty of the Indians followed as far as the ford, the rest being occupied in killing the wounded and scalping the dead. Dumas, who had now but twenty Frenchmen left, fell back to the fort, and the remnants of Braddock's force continued the flight unmolested.	{ "id": "17766" }
10	: The Fight At Lake George.	Fortunate was it, for the remnant of Braddock's force, that the Indians were too much occupied in gathering the abundant harvest of scalps, too anxious to return to the fort to exhibit these trophies of their bravery, to press on in pursuit; for, had they done so, few indeed of the panic-stricken fugitives would ever have lived to tell the tale. All night these continued their flight, expecting every moment to hear the dreaded war whoop burst out again in the woods round them. Colonel Washington had been ordered, by the dying general, to press on on horseback to the camp of Dunbar, and to tell him to forward waggons, provisions, and ammunition; but the panic, which had seized the main force, had already been spread by flying teamsters to Dunbar's camp. Many soldiers and waggoners at once took flight, and the panic was heightened when the remnants of Braddock's force arrived. There was no reason to suppose that they were pursued, and even had they been so, their force was ample to repel any attack that could be made upon it; but probably their commander saw that, in their present state of utter demoralization, they could not be trusted to fight, and that the first Indian war whoop would start them again in flight. Still, it was clear that a retreat would leave the whole border open to the ravages of the Indians, and Colonel Dunbar was greatly blamed for the course he took. A hundred waggons were burned, the cannon and shells burst, and the barrels of powder emptied into the stream, the stores of provisions scattered through the woods, and then the force began its retreat over the mountains to Fort Cumberland, sixty miles away. General Braddock died the day that the retreat began. His last words were: "We shall know better how to deal with them next time." The news of the disaster came like a thunderbolt upon the colonists. Success had been regarded as certain, and the news that some fourteen hundred English troops had been utterly routed, by a body of French and Indians of half their strength, seemed almost incredible. The only consolation was that the hundred and fifty Virginians, who had accompanied the regulars, had all, as was acknowledged by the English officers themselves, fought with the greatest bravery, and had kept their coolness and presence of mind till the last, and that on them no shadow of the discredit of the affair rested. Indeed, it was said that the greater part were killed not by the fire of the Indians, but by that of the troops, who, standing in masses, fired in all directions, regardless of what was in front of them. But Colonel Dunbar, not satisfied with retreating to the safe shelter of Fort Cumberland, to the amazement of the colonists, insisted upon withdrawing with his own force to Philadelphia, leaving the whole of the frontier open to the assaults of the hostile Indians. After waiting a short time at Philadelphia, he marched slowly on to join a force operating against the French in the region of Lake George, more than two hundred miles to the north. He took with him only the regulars, the provincial regiments being under the control of the governors of their own states. Washington therefore remained behind in Virginia with the regiment of that colony. The blanks made in Braddock's fight were filled up, and the force raised to a thousand strong. With these he was to protect a frontier of three hundred and fifty miles long, against an active and enterprising foe more numerous than himself, and who, acting on the other side of the mountain, and in the shade of the deep forests, could choose their own time of attack, and launch themselves suddenly upon any village throughout the whole length of the frontier. Nor were the troops at his disposal the material which a commander would wish to have in his hand. Individually they were brave, but being recruited among the poor whites, the most turbulent and troublesome part of the population, they were wholly unamenable to discipline, and Washington had no means whatever for enforcing it. He applied to the House of Assembly to pass a law enabling him to punish disobedience, but for months they hesitated to pass any such ordinance, on the excuse that it would trench on the liberty of free white men. The service, indeed, was most unpopular, and Washington, whose headquarters were at Winchester, could do nothing whatever to assist the settlements on the border. His officers were as unruly as the men, and he was further hampered by having to comply with the orders of Governor Dinwiddie, at Williamsburg, two hundred miles away. "What do you mean to do?" he had asked James Walsham, the day that the beaten army arrived at Fort Cumberland. "I do not know," James said. "I certainly will not continue with Dunbar, who seems to me to be acting like a coward; nor do I wish to go into action with regulars again; not, at least, until they have been taught that, if they are to fight Indians successfully in the forests, they must abandon all their traditions of drill, and must fight in Indian fashion. I should like to stay with you, if you will allow me." "I should be very glad to have you with me," Washington said; "but I do not think that you will see much action here. It will be a war of forays. The Indians will pounce upon a village or solitary farm house, murder and scalp the inhabitants, burn the buildings to the ground, and in an hour be far away beyond reach of pursuit. All that I can do is to occupy the chief roads, by which they can advance into the heart of the colony, and the people of the settlements lying west of that must, perforce, abandon their homesteads, and fly east until we are strong enough to again take up the offensive. "Were I in your place, I would at once take horse and ride north. You will then be in plenty of time, if inclined, to join in the expedition against the French on Fort George, or in that which is going to march on Niagara. I fancy the former will be ready first. You will find things better managed there than here. The colonists in that part have, for many years, been accustomed to Indian fighting, and they will not be hampered by having regular troops with them, whose officers' only idea of warfare is to keep their men standing in line as targets for the enemy. "There are many bodies of experienced scouts, to which you can attach yourself, and you will see that white men can beat the Indians at their own game." Although sorry to leave the young Virginian officer, James Walsham thought that he could not do better than follow his advice, and accordingly, the next day, having procured another horse, he set off to join the column destined to operate on the lakes. The prevision of Washington was shortly realized, and a cloud of red warriors descended on the border settlements, carrying murder, rapine, and ruin before them. Scores of quiet settlements were destroyed, hundreds of men, women, and children massacred, and in a short time the whole of the outlying farms were deserted, and crowds of weeping fugitives flocked eastward behind the line held by Washington's regiment. But bad as affairs were in Virginia, those in Pennsylvania were infinitely worse. They had, for many years, been on such friendly terms with the Indians, that many of the settlers had no arms, nor had they the protection in the way of troops which the government of Virginia put upon the frontier. The government of the colony was at Philadelphia, far to the east, and sheltered from danger, and the Quaker assembly there refused to vote money for a single soldier to protect the unhappy colonists on the frontier. They held it a sin to fight, and above all to fight with Indians, and as long as they themselves were free from the danger, they turned a deaf ear to the tales of massacre, and to the pitiful cries for aid which came from the frontier. But even greater than their objection to war, was their passion of resistance to the representative of royalty, the governor. Petition after petition came from the border for arms and ammunition, and for a militia law to enable the people to organize and defend themselves; but the Quakers resisted, declaring that Braddock's defeat was a just judgment upon him and his soldiers for molesting the French in their settlement in Ohio. They passed, indeed, a bill for raising fifty thousand pounds for the king's use, but affixed to it a condition, to which they knew well the governor could not assent; viz, that the proprietary lands were to pay their share of the tax. To this condition the governor was unable to assent, for, according to the constitution of the colony, to which he was bound, the lands of William Penn and his descendants were free of all taxation. For weeks the deadlock continued. Every day brought news of massacres of tens, fifties, and even hundreds of persons, but the assembly remained obstinate; until the mayor, aldermen, and principal citizens clamoured against them, and four thousand frontiersmen started on their march to Philadelphia, to compel them to take measures for defence. Bodies of massacred men were brought from the frontier villages and paraded through the town, and so threatening became the aspect of the population, that the Assembly of Quakers were at last obliged to pass a militia law. It was, however, an absolutely useless one. It specially excepted the Quakers from service, and constrained nobody, but declared it lawful for such as chose to form themselves into companies, and to elect officers by ballot. The company officers might, if they saw fit, elect, also by ballot, colonels, lieutenant colonels, and majors. These last might then, in conjunction with the governor, frame articles of war, to which, however, no officer or man was to be subjected, unless, after three days' consideration, he subscribed them in presence of a justice of the peace, and declared his willingness to be bound by them. This mockery of a bill, drawn by Benjamin Franklin while the savages were raging in the colony and the smoke of a hundred villages was ascending to the skies, was received with indignation by the people, and this rose to such a height that the Assembly must have yielded unconditionally, had not a circumstance occurred which gave them a decent pretext for retreat. The governor informed them that he had just received a letter from the proprietors, as Penn's heirs were called, giving to the province five thousand pounds to aid in its defence, on condition that the money should be accepted as a free gift, and not as their proportion of any tax that was or might be laid by the Assembly. Thereupon, the Assembly struck out the clause taxing the proprietory estates, and the governor signed the bill. A small force was then raised, which enabled the Indians to be to some extent kept in check; but there was no safety for the unhappy settlers in the west of Pennsylvania during the next three years, while the French from Montreal were hounding on their savage allies, by gifts and rewards, to deeds of massacre and bloodshed. The northern colonies had shown a better spirit. Massachusetts, which had always been the foremost of the northern colonies in resisting French and Indian aggression, had at once taken the lead in preparation for war. No less than 4500 men, being one in eight of her adult males, volunteered to fight the French, and enlisted for the various expeditions, some in the pay of the province, some in that of the king. Shirley, the governor of Massachusetts, himself a colonist, was requested by his Assembly to nominate the commander. He did not choose an officer of that province, as this would have excited the jealousy of the others, but nominated William Johnson of New York--a choice which not only pleased that important province, but had great influence in securing the alliance of the Indians of the Five Nations, among whom Johnson, who had held the post of Indian commissioner, was extremely popular. Connecticut voted 1200 men, New Hampshire 500, Rhode Island 400, and New York 800, all at their own charge. Johnson, before assuming the command, invited the warriors of the Five Nations to assemble in council. Eleven hundred Indian warriors answered the invitation, and after four days' speech making agreed to join. Only 300 of them, however, took the field, for so many of their friends and relatives were fighting for the French, that the rest, when they sobered down after the excitement of the council, returned to their homes. The object of the expedition was the attack of Crown Point--an important military post on Lake Champlain--and the colonists assembled near Albany; but there were great delays. The five colonial assemblies controlled their own troops and supplies. Connecticut had refused to send her men until Shirley promised that her commanding officer should rank next to Johnson, and the whole movement was for some time at a deadlock, because the five governments could not agree about their contributions of artillery and stores. The troops were a rough-looking body. Only one of the corps had a blue uniform, faced with red. The rest wore their ordinary farm clothing. All had brought their own guns, of every description and fashion. They had no bayonets, but carried hatchets in their belts as a sort of substitute. In point of morals the army, composed almost entirely of farmers and farmers' sons, was exemplary. It is recorded that not a chicken was stolen. In the camps of the Puritan soldiers of New England, sermons were preached twice a week, and there were daily prayers and much singing of psalms; but these good people were much shocked by the profane language of the troops from New York and Rhode Island, and some prophesied that disaster would be sure to fall upon the army from this cause. Months were consumed in various delays; and, on the 21st of August, just as they were moving forward, four Mohawks, whom Johnson had sent into Canada, returned with the news that the French were making great preparations, and that 8000 men were marching to defend Crown Point. The papers of General Braddock, which fell, with all the baggage of the army, into the hands of the French, had informed them of the object of the gathering at Albany, and now that they had no fear of any further attempt against their posts in Ohio, they were able to concentrate all their force for the defence of their posts on Lake Champlain. On the receipt of this alarming news, a council of war was held at Albany, and messages were sent to the colonies asking for reinforcements. In the meantime, the army moved up the Hudson to the spot called the Great Carrying Place, where Colonel Lyman, who was second in command, had gone forward and erected a fort, which his men called after him, but was afterwards named Fort Edward. James Walsham joined the army a few days before it moved forward. He was received with great heartiness by General Johnson, to whom he brought a letter of introduction from Colonel Washington, and who at once offered him a position as one of his aides-de-camp. This he found exceedingly pleasant, for Johnson was one of the most jovial and open hearted of commanders. His hospitality was profuse, and, his private means being large, he was able to keep a capital table, which, on the line of march, all officers who happened to pass by were invited to share. This was a contrast, indeed, to the discipline which had prevailed in Braddock's columns, and James felt as if he were starting upon a great picnic, rather than upon an arduous march against a superior force. After some hesitation as to the course the army should take, it was resolved to march for Lake George. Gangs of axemen were sent to hew a way, and, on the 26th, 2000 men marched for the lake, while Colonel Blanchard, of New Hampshire, remained with 500 to finish and defend Fort Lyman. The march was made in a leisurely manner, and the force took two days to traverse the fourteen miles between Fort Lyman and the lake. They were now in a country hitherto untrodden by white men save by solitary hunters. They reached the southern end of the beautiful lake, which hitherto had received no English name, and was now first called Lake George in honour of the king. The men set to work, and felled trees until they had cleared a sufficient extent of ground for their camp, by the edge of the water, and posted themselves with their back to the lake. In their front was a forest of pitch pine, on their right a marsh covered with thick brush wood, on their left a low hill. Things went on in the same leisurely way which had marked the progress of the expedition. No attempt was made to clear away the forest in front, although it would afford excellent cover for any enemy who might attack them, nor were any efforts made to discover the whereabouts or intention of the enemy. Every day waggons came up with provisions and boats. On September 7th, an Indian scout arrived about sunset, and reported that he had found the trail of a body of men moving from South Bay, the southern extremity of Lake Champlain, towards Fort Lyman. Johnson called for a volunteer to carry a letter of warning to Colonel Blanchard. A waggoner named Adams offered to undertake the perilous service, and rode off with the letter. Sentries were posted, and the camp fell asleep. While Johnson had been taking his leisure on Lake George, the commander of the French force, a German baron named Dieskau, was preparing a surprise for him. He had reached Crown Point at the head of 3573 men--regulars, Canadians, and Indians--and he at once moved forward, with the greater portion of his command, on Cariolon, or, as it was afterwards called, Ticonderoga, a promontory at the junction of Lake George with Lake Champlain, where he would bar the advance of the English, whichever road they might take. The Indians with the French caused great trouble to their commander, doing nothing but feast and sleep, but, on September 4th, a party of them came in bringing a scalp and an English prisoner, caught near Fort Lyman. He was questioned, under the threat of being given over to the Indians to torture, if he did not tell the truth, but the brave fellow, thinking he should lead the enemy into a trap, told them that the English army had fallen back to Albany, leaving 500 men at Fort Lyman, which he represented as being entirely indefensible. Dieskau at once determined to attack that place, and, with 216 regulars of the battalions of Languedoc and La Reine, 684 Canadians, and about 600 Indians, started in canoes and advanced up Lake Champlain, till they came to the end of South Bay. Each officer and man carried provisions for eight days in his knapsack. Two days' march brought them to within three miles of Fort Lyman, and they encamped close to the road which led to Lake George. Just after they had encamped, a man rode by on horseback. It was Adams, Johnson's messenger. He was shot by the Indians, and the letter found upon him. Soon afterwards, ten or twelve waggons appeared, in charge of ammunition drivers who had left the English camp without orders. Some of the drivers were shot, two taken prisoners, and the rest ran away. The two prisoners declared that, contrary to the assertion of the prisoner at Ticonderoga, a large force lay encamped by the lake. The Indians held a council, and presently informed Dieskau that they would not attack the fort, which they believed to be provided with cannon, but would join in an attempt on the camp by the lake. Dieskau judged, from the report of the prisoners, that the colonists considerably outnumbered him, although in fact there was no great difference in numerical strength, the French column numbering 1500 and the colonial force 2200, besides 300 Mohawk Indians. But Dieskau, emulous of repeating the defeat of Braddock, and believing the assertions of the Canadians that the colonial militia was contemptible, determined to attack, and early in the morning the column moved along the road towards the lake. When within four miles of Johnson's camp, they entered a rugged valley. On their right was a gorge, hidden in bushes, beyond which rose the rocky height of French Mountain. On their left rose gradually the slopes of West Mountain. The ground was thickly covered with thicket and forest. The regulars marched along the road, the Canadians and Indians pushed their way through the woods as best they could. When within three miles of the lake, their scout brought in a prisoner, who told them that an English column was approaching. The regulars were halted on the road, the Canadians and Indians moved on ahead, and hid themselves in ambush among the trees and bushes on either side of the road. The waggoners, who had escaped the evening before, had reached Johnson's camp about midnight, and reported that there was a war party on the road near Fort Lyman. A council of war was held, and under an entire misconception of the force of the enemy, and the belief that they would speedily fall back from Fort Lyman, it was determined to send out two detachments, each 500 strong, one towards Fort Lyman, the other to catch the enemy in their retreat. Hendrick, the chief of the Mohawks, expressed his strong disapproval of this plan, and accordingly it was resolved that the thousand men should go as one body. Hendrick still disapproved of the plan, but nevertheless resolved to accompany the column, and, mounting on a gun carriage, he harangued his warriors with passionate eloquence, and they at once prepared to accompany them. He was too old and fat to go on foot, and the general lent him a horse, which he mounted, and took his place at the head of the column. Colonel Williams was in command, with Lieutenant Colonel Whiting as second. They had no idea of meeting the enemy near the camp, and moved forward so carelessly that not a single scout was thrown out in front or flank. The sharp eye of the old Indian chief was the first to detect a sign of the enemy, and, almost at the same moment, a gun was fired from the bushes. It is said that the Iroquois, seeing the Mohawks, who were an allied tribe, in the van, wished to warn them of danger. The warning came too late to save the column from disaster, but it saved it from destruction. From the thicket on the left a deadly fire blazed out, and the head of the column was almost swept away. Hendrick's horse was shot, and the chief killed with a bayonet as he tried to gain his feet. Colonel Williams, seeing rising ground on his right, made for it, calling his men to follow; but, as he climbed the slope, the enemy's fire flashed out from behind every tree, and he fell dead. The men in the rear pressed forward to support their comrades, when the enemy in the bushes on the right flank also opened fire. Then a panic began. Some fled at once for the camp, and the whole column recoiled in confusion, as from all sides the enemy burst out, shouting and yelling. Colonel Whiting, however, bravely rallied a portion of Williams' regiment, and, aided by some of the Mohawks, and by a detachment which Johnson sent out to his aid, covered the retreat, fighting behind the trees like the Indians, and falling back in good order with their faces to the enemy. So stern and obstinate was their resistance that the French halted three-quarters of a mile from the camp. They had inflicted a heavy blow, but had altogether failed in obtaining the complete success they looked for. The obstinate defence of Whiting and his men had surprised and dispirited them, and Dieskau, when he collected his men, found the Indians sullen and unmanageable, and the Canadians unwilling to advance further, for they were greatly depressed by the loss of a veteran officer, Saint Pierre, who commanded them, and who had been killed in the fight. At length, however, he persuaded all to move forward, the regulars leading the way. James Walsham had not accompanied the column, and was sitting at breakfast with General Johnson, on the stump of a tree in front of his tent, when, on the still air, a rattling sound broke out. "Musketry!" was the general exclamation. An instantaneous change came over the camp. The sound of laughing and talking was hushed, and every man stopped at his work. Louder and louder swelled the distant sound, until the shots could no longer be distinguished apart. The rattle had become a steady roll. "It is a regular engagement!" the general exclaimed. "The enemy must be in force, and must have attacked Williams' column." General Johnson ordered one of his orderlies to mount and ride out at full speed and see what was going on. A quarter of an hour passed. No one returned to his work. The men stood in groups, talking in low voices, and listening to the distant roar. "It is clearer than it was," the general exclaimed. Several of the officers standing round agreed that the sound was approaching. "To work, lads!" the general said. "There is no time to be lost. Let all the axemen fell trees and lay them end to end to make a breastwork. The rest of you range the waggons in a line behind, and lay the boats up in the intervals. Carry the line from the swamp, on the right there, to the slope of the hill." In an instant, the camp was a scene of animation, and the forest resounded with the strokes of the axe, and the shouts of the men as they dragged the waggons to their position. "I was a fool," Johnson exclaimed, "not to fortify the camp before; but who could have supposed that the French would have come down from Crown Point to attack us here!" In a few minutes terror-stricken men, whites and Indians, arrived at a run through the forest, and reported that they had been attacked and surprised by a great force in the forest, that Hendrick and Colonel Williams were killed, and numbers of the men shot down. They reported that all was lost; but the heavy roll of fire, in the distance, contradicted their words; and showed that a portion of the column, at least, was fighting sternly and steadily, though the sound indicated that they were falling back. Two hundred men had already been despatched to their assistance, and the only effect of the news was to redouble the efforts of the rest. Soon parties arrived carrying wounded; but it was not until an hour and a half after the engagement began, that the main body of the column were seen marching, in good order, back through the forest. By this time the hasty defences were well-nigh completed, and all the men were employed in cutting down the thick brushwood outside, so as to clear the ground as far as possible, and so prevent the enemy from stealing up, under shelter, to the felled trees. Three cannon were planted, to sweep the road that descended through the pines. Another was dragged up to the ridge of the hill. Two hundred and fifty men were now placed on each flank of the camp, the main body stood behind the waggons or lay flat behind the logs and boats, the Massachusetts men on the right, the Connecticut men on the left. "Now, my lads," Johnson shouted, in his cheery voice, "you have got to fight. Remember, if they get inside not one of you will ever go back to your families to tell the tale, while if you fight bravely you will beat them back sure enough." In a few minutes, ranks of white-coated soldiers could be seen moving down the roads, with their bayonets showing between the boughs. At the same time, Indian war whoops rose loud in the forest, and then dark forms could be seen, bounding down the slope through the trees towards the camp in a throng. There was a movement of uneasiness among the young rustics, few of whom ever heard a shot fired in anger before that morning; but the officers, standing pistol in hand, threatened to shoot any man who moved from his position. Could Dieskau have launched his whole force at once upon the camp at that moment, he would probably have carried it, but this he was powerless to do. His regular troops were well in hand; but the mob of Canadians and Indians were scattered through the forest, shouting, yelling, and firing from behind trees. He thought, however, that if he led the regulars to the attack, the others would come forward, and he therefore gave the word for the advance. The French soldiers advanced steadily, until the trees grew thinner. They were deployed into line, and opened fire in regular volleys. Scarcely had they done so, however, when Captain Eyre, who commanded the artillery, opened upon them with grape from his three guns, while from waggon, and boat, and fallen log, the musketry fire flashed out hot and bitter, and, reeling under the shower of iron and lead, the French line broke up, the soldiers took shelter behind trees, and thence returned the fire of the defenders. Johnson received a flesh wound in the thigh, and retired to his tent, where he spent the rest of the day. Lyman took the command, and to him the credit of the victory is entirely due. For four hours the combat raged. The young soldiers had soon got over their first uneasiness, and fought as steadily and coolly as veterans. The musketry fire was unbroken. From every tree, bush, and rock the rifles flashed out, and the leaden hail flew in a storm over the camp, and cut the leaves in a shower from the forest. Through this Lyman moved to and fro among the men, directing, encouraging, cheering them on, escaping as by a miracle the balls which whistled round him. Save the Indians on the English side, not a man but was engaged, the waggoners taking their guns and joining in the fight. The Mohawks, however, held aloof, saying that they had come to see their English brothers fight, but, animated no doubt with the idea that, if they abstained from taking part in the fray, and the day went against the English, their friends the Iroquois would not harm them. The French Indians worked round on to high ground, beyond the swamp on the left, and their fire thence took the defenders in the flank. Captain Eyre speedily turned his guns in that direction, and a few well-directed shells soon drove the Indians from their vantage ground. Dieskau directed his first attack against the left and centre; but the Connecticut men fought so stoutly, that he next tried to force the right, where the Massachusetts regiments of Titcomb, Ruggles, and Williams held the line. For an hour he strove hard to break his way through the intrenchments, but the Massachusetts men stood firm, although Titcomb was killed and their loss was heavy. At length Dieskau, exposing himself within short range of the English lines, was hit in the leg. While his adjutant Montreuil was dressing the wound, the general was again hit in the knee and thigh. He had himself placed behind a tree, and ordered Montreuil to lead the regulars in a last effort against the camp. But it was too late. The blood of the colonists was now up, and, singly or in small bodies, they were crossing their lines of barricade, and working up among the trees towards their assailants. The movement became general, and Lyman, seeing the spirit of his men, gave the word, and the whole of the troops, with a shout, leaped up and dashed through the wood against the enemy, falling upon them with their hatchets and the butts of their guns. The French and their allies instantly fled. As the colonists passed the spot where Dieskau was sitting on the ground, one of them, singularly enough himself a Frenchman, who had ten years before left Canada, fired at him and shot him through both legs. Others came up and stripped him of his clothes, but, on learning who he was, they carried him to Johnson, who received him with the greatest kindness, and had every attention paid to him.	{ "id": "17766" }
11	: Scouting.	It was near five o'clock before the final rout of the French took place; but, before that time, several hundreds of the Canadians and Indians had left the scene of action, and had returned to the scene of the fight in the wood, to plunder and scalp the dead. They were resting, after their bloody work, by a pool in the forest, when a scouting party from Fort Lyman, under Captains M'Ginnis and Folsom, came upon them and opened fire. The Canadians and Indians, outnumbering their assailants greatly, fought for some time, but were finally defeated and fled. M'Ginnis was mortally wounded, but continued to give orders till the fight was over. The bodies of the slain were thrown into the pool, which to this day bears the name, "the bloody pool." The various bands of French fugitives reunited in the forest, and made their way back to their canoes in South Bay, and reached Ticonderoga utterly exhausted and famished, for they had thrown away their knapsacks in their flight, and had nothing to eat from the morning of the fight until they rejoined their comrades. Johnson had the greatest difficulty in protecting the wounded French general from the Mohawks, who, although they had done no fighting in defence of the camp, wanted to torture and burn Dieskau in revenge for the death of Hendrick and their warriors who had fallen in the ambush. He, however, succeeded in doing so, and sent him in a litter under a strong escort to Albany. Dieskau was afterwards taken to England, and remained for some years at Bath, after which he returned to Paris. He never, however, recovered from his numerous wounds, and died a few years later. He always spoke in the highest terms of the kindness he had received from the colonial officers. Of the provincial soldiers he said that, in the morning they fought like boys, about noon like men, and in the afternoon like devils. The English loss in killed, wounded, and missing was two hundred and sixty-two, for the most part killed in the ambush in the morning. The French, according to their own account, lost two hundred and twenty-eight, but it probably exceeded four hundred, the principal portion of whom were regulars, for the Indians and Canadians kept themselves so well under cover that they and the provincials, behind their logs, were able to inflict but little loss on each other. Had Johnson followed up his success, he might have reached South Bay before the French, in which case the whole of Dieskau's column must have fallen into his hands; nor did he press forward against Ticonderoga, which he might easily have captured. For ten days nothing was done except to fortify the camp, and when, at the end of that time, he thought of advancing against Ticonderoga, the French had already fortified the place so strongly that they were able to defy attack. The colonists sent him large reinforcements, but the season was getting late, and, after keeping the army stationary until the end of November, the troops, having suffered terribly from the cold and exposure, became almost mutinous, and were finally marched back to Albany, a small detachment being left to hold the fort by the lake. This was now christened Fort William Henry. The victory was due principally to the gallantry and coolness of Lyman; but Johnson, in his report of the battle, made no mention of that officer's name, and took all the credit to himself. He was rewarded by being made a baronet, and by being voted a pension, by parliament, of five thousand a year. James Walsham, having no duties during the fight at the camp, had taken a musket and lain down behind the logs with the soldiers, and had, all the afternoon, kept up a fire at the trees and bushes behind which the enemy were hiding. After the battle, he had volunteered to assist the over-worked surgeons, whose labours lasted through the night. When he found that no forward movement was likely to take place, he determined to leave the camp. He therefore asked Captain Rogers, who was the leader of a band of scouts, and a man of extraordinary energy and enterprise, to allow him to accompany him on a scouting expedition towards Ticonderoga. "I shall be glad to have you with me," Rogers replied; "but you know it is a service of danger. It is not like work with regular troops, where all march, fight, stand, or fall together. Here each man fights for himself. Mind, there is not a man among my band who would not risk his life for the rest; but, scattered through the woods as each man is, each must perforce rely principally on himself. The woods near Ticonderoga will be full of lurking redskins, and a man may be brained and scalped without his fellow, a few yards away, hearing a sound. I only say this that you may feel that you must take your chances. The men under me are, every one, old hunters and Indian fighters, and are a match for the redskin in every move of forest war. They are true grit to the backbone, but they are rough outspoken men, and, on a service when a foot carelessly placed on a dried twig, or a word spoken above a whisper, may bring a crowd of yelping redskins upon us, and cost every man his scalp, they would speak sharply to the king himself, if he were on the scout with them, and you must not take offence at any rough word that may be said." James laughed, and said that he should not care how much he was blown up, and that he should thankfully receive any lessons from such masters of forest craft. "Very well," Captain Rogers said. "In that case, it is settled. I will let you have a pair of moccasins. You cannot go walking about in the woods in those boots. You had better get a rifle. Your sword you had best leave behind. It will be of no use to you, and will only be in your way." James had no difficulty in providing himself with a gun, for numbers of weapons, picked up in the woods after the rout of the enemy, were stored in camp. The rifles had, however, been all taken by the troops, who had exchanged their own firelocks for them. Captain Rogers went with him among the men, and selected a well-finished rifle of which one of them had possessed himself. Its owner readily agreed to accept five pounds for it, taking in its stead one of the guns in the store. Before choosing it, Captain Rogers placed a bit of paper against a tree, and fired several shots at various distances at it. "It is a beautiful rifle," he said. "Its only fault is that it is rather heavy, but it shoots all the better for it. It is evidently a French gun, I should say by a first-rate maker, built probably for some French officer who knew what he was about. It is a good workmanlike piece, and, when you learn to hold it straight, you can trust it to shoot." That evening James, having made all his preparations, said goodbye to the general and to his other friends, and joined the scouts who were gathering by the shore of the lake. Ten canoes, each of which would carry three men, were lying by the shore. "Nat, you and Jonathan will take this young fellow with you. He is a lad, and it is his first scout. You will find him of the right sort. He was with Braddock, and after that affair hurried up here to see fighting on the lakes. He can't have two better nurses than you are. He is going to be an officer in the king's army, and wants to learn as much as he can, so that, if he ever gets with his men into such a mess as Braddock tumbled into, he will know what to do with them." "All right, captain! We will do our best for him. It's risky sort of business ours for a greenhorn, but if he is anyways teachable, we will soon make a man of him." The speaker was a wiry, active man of some forty years old, with a weatherbeaten face, and a keen gray eye. Jonathan, his comrade, was a head taller, with broad shoulders, powerful limbs, and a quiet but good-tempered face. "That's so, isn't it, Jonathan?" Nat asked. Jonathan nodded. He was not a man of many words. "Have you ever been in a canoe before?" Nat inquired. "Never," James said; "but I am accustomed to boats of all sorts, and can handle an oar fairly." "Oars ain't no good here," the scout said. "You will have to learn to paddle; but, first of all, you have got to learn to sit still. These here canoes are awkward things for a beginner. Now you hand in your traps, and I will stow them away, then you take your place in the middle of the boat. Here's a paddle for you, and when you begin to feel yourself comfortable, you can start to try with it, easy and gentle to begin with; but you must lay it in when we get near where we may expect that redskins may be in the woods, for the splash of a paddle might cost us all our scalps." James took his seat in the middle of the boat. Jonathan was behind him. Nat handled the paddle in the bow. There was but a brief delay in starting, and the ten boats darted noiselessly out on to the lake. For a time, James did not attempt to use his paddle. The canoe was of birch bark, so thin that it seemed to him that an incautious movement would instantly knock a hole through her. Once under weigh, she was steadier than he had expected, and James could feel her bound forward with each stroke of the paddles. When he became accustomed to the motion of the boat, he raised himself from a sitting position in the bottom, and, kneeling as the others were doing, he began to dip his paddle quietly in the water in time with their stroke. His familiarity with rowing rendered it easy for him to keep time and swing, and, ere long, he found himself putting a considerable amount of force into each stroke. Nat looked back over his shoulder. "Well done, young 'un. That's first rate for a beginner, and it makes a deal of difference on our arms. The others are all paddling three, and, though Jonathan and I have beaten three before now, when our scalps depended on our doing so, it makes all the difference in the work whether you have a sitter to take along, or an extra paddle going." It was falling dusk when the boat started, and was, by this time, quite dark. Scarce a word was heard in the ten canoes as, keeping near the right-hand shore of the lake, they glided rapidly along in a close body. So noiselessly were the paddles dipped into the water that the drip from them, as they were lifted, was the only sound heard. Four hours' steady paddling took them to the narrows, about five-and-twenty miles from their starting point. Here, on the whispered order of Nat, James laid in his paddle; for, careful as he was, he occasionally made a slight splash as he put it in the water. The canoes now kept in single file, almost under the trees on the right bank, for the lake was here scarce a mile across, and watchful eyes might be on the lookout on the shore to the left. Another ten miles was passed, and then the canoes were steered in to the shore. The guns, blankets, and bundles were lifted out; the canoes raised on the shoulders of the men, and carried a couple of hundred yards among the trees; then, with scarcely a word spoken, each man rolled himself in his blanket and lay down to sleep, four being sent out as scouts in various directions. Soon after daybreak, all were on foot again, although it had been arranged that no move should be made till night set in. No fires were lighted, for they had brought with them a supply of biscuit and dry deers' flesh sufficient for a week. "How did you get on yesterday?" Captain Rogers asked, as he came up to the spot where James had just risen to his feet. "First rate, captain!" Nat answered for him. "I hardly believed that a young fellow could have handled a paddle so well, at the first attempt. He rowed all the way, except just the narrows, and though I don't say as he was noiseless, he did wonderfully well, and we came along with the rest as easy as may be." "I thought I heard a little splash, now and then," the captain said, smiling; "but it was very slight, and could do no harm where the lake is two or three miles wide, as it is here. But you will have to lay in your paddle when we get near the other end, for the sides narrow in there, and the redskins would hear a fish jump, half a mile away." During the day the men passed their time in sleep, in mending their clothes, or in talking quietly together. The use of tea had not yet become general in America, and the meals were washed down with water drawn from the lake (where an over-hanging bush shaded the shore from the sight of anyone on the opposite bank), mixed with rum from the gourds which all the scouts carried. Nat spent some time in pointing out, to James, the signs by which the hunters found their way through the forest; by the moss and lichens growing more thickly on the side of the trunks of the trees opposed to the course of the prevailing winds, or by a slight inclination of the upper boughs of the trees in the same direction. "An old woodsman can tell," he said, "on the darkest night, on running his hand round the trunk of a tree, by the feel of the bark, which is north and south; but it would be long before you can get to such niceties as that; but, if you keep your eyes open as you go along, and look at the signs on the trunks, which are just as plain, when you once know them, as the marks on a man's face, you will be able to make your way through the woods in the daytime. Of course, when the sun is shining, you get its help, for, although it is not often a gleam comes down through the leaves, sometimes you come upon a little patch, and you are sure, now and then, to strike on a gap where a tree has fallen, and that gives you a line again. A great help to a young beginner is the sun, for a young hand in the woods gets confused, and doubts the signs of the trees; but, in course, when he comes on a patch of sunlight, he can't make a mistake nohow as to the direction." James indulged in a silent hope that, if he were ever lost in the woods, the sun would be shining, for, look as earnestly as he would, he could not perceive the signs which appeared so plain and distinct to the scout. Occasionally, indeed, he fancied that there was some slight difference between one side of the trunk and the other; but he was by no means sure that, even in these cases, he should have noticed it unless it had been pointed out to him; while, in the greater part of the trees he could discern no difference whatever. "It's just habit, my lad," Nat said encouragingly to him; "there's just as much difference between one side of the tree and the other, as there is between two men's faces. It comes of practice. Now, just look at the roots of this tree; don't you see, on one side they run pretty nigh straight out from the trunk, while from the other they go down deep into the ground. That speaks for itself. The tree has thrown out its roots, to claw into the ground and get a hold, on the side from which the wind comes; while, on the other side, having no such occasion, it has dipped its root down to look for moisture and food." "Yes, I do see that," James said, "that is easy enough to make out; but the next tree, and the next, and, as far as I see, all the others, don't seem to have any difference in their roots one side or the other." "That is so," the scout replied. "You see, those are younger trees than this, and it is like enough they did not grow under the same circumstances. When a few trees fall, or a small clearing is made by a gale, the young trees that grow up are well sheltered from the wind by the forest, and don't want to throw out roots to hold them up; but when a great clearing has been made, by a fire or other causes, the trees, as they grow up together, have no shelter, and must stretch out their roots to steady them. "Sometimes, you will find all the trees, for a long distance, with their roots like this; sometimes only one tree among a number. Perhaps, when they started, that tree had more room, or a deeper soil, and grew faster than the rest, and got his head above them, so he felt the wind more, and had to throw out his roots to steady himself; while the others, all growing the same height, did not need to do so." "Thank you," James said. "I understand now, and will bear it in mind. It is very interesting, and I should like, above all things, to be able to read the signs of the woods as you do." "It will come, lad. It's a sort of second nature. These things are gifts. The redskin thinks it just as wonderful that the white man should be able to take up a piece of paper covered with black marks, and to read off sense out of them, as you do that he should be able to read every mark and sign of the wood. He can see, as plain as if the man was still standing on it, the mark of a footprint, and can tell you if it was made by a warrior or a squaw, and how long they have passed by, and whether they were walking fast or slow; while the ordinary white man might go down on his hands and knees, and stare at the ground, and wouldn't be able to see the slightest sign or mark. For a white man, my eyes are good, but they are not a patch on a redskin's. I have lived among the woods since I was a boy; but even now, a redskin lad can pick up a trail and follow it when, look as I will, I can't see as a blade of grass has been bruised. No; these things is partly natur and partly practice. Practice will do a lot for a white man; but it won't take him up to redskin natur." Not until night had fallen did the party again launch their canoes on the lake. Then they paddled for several hours until, as James imagined, they had traversed a greater distance, by some miles, than that which they had made on the previous evening. He knew, from what he had learned during the day, that they were to land some six miles below the point where Lake George joins Lake Champlain, and where, on the opposite side, on a promontory stretching into the lake, the French were constructing their new fort. The canoes were to be carried some seven or eight miles through the wood, across the neck of land between the two lakes, and were then to be launched again on Lake Champlain, so that, by following the east shore of that lake, they would pass Ticonderoga at a safe distance. The halt was made as noiselessly as before, and, having hauled up the canoes, the men slept till daybreak; and then, lifting the light craft on their shoulders, started for their journey through the woods. It was toilsome work, for the ground was rough and broken, often thickly covered with underwood. Ridges had to be crossed and deep ravines passed, and, although the canoes were not heavy, the greatest care had to be exercised, for a graze against a projecting bough, or the edge of a rock, would suffice to tear a hole in the thin bark. It was not until late in the afternoon that they arrived on the shores of Lake Champlain. A fire was lighted now, the greatest care being taken to select perfectly dry sticks, for the Iroquois were likely to be scattered far and wide among the woods. The risk, however, was far less than when in sight of the French side of Lake George. After darkness fell, the canoes were again placed in the water, and, striking across the lake, they followed the right-hand shore. After paddling for about an hour and a half, the work suddenly ceased. The lake seemed to widen on their left, for they had just passed the tongue of land between the two lakes, and on the opposite shore a number of fires were seen, burning brightly on the hillside. It was Ticonderoga they were now abreast of, the advanced post of the French. They lingered for some time before the paddles were again dipped in water, counting the fires and making a careful note of the position. They paddled on again until some twelve miles beyond the fort, and then crossed the lake and landed on the French shore. But the canoes did not all approach the shore together, as they had done on the previous nights. They halted half a mile out, and Captain Rogers went forward with his own and another canoe and landed, and it was not for half an hour that the signal was given, by an imitation of the croaking of a frog, that a careful search had ascertained the forest to be untenanted, and the landing safe. No sooner was the signal given than the canoes were set in motion, and were soon safely hauled up on shore. Five men went out, as usual, as scouts, and the rest, fatigued by their paddle and the hard day's work, were soon asleep. In the morning they were about to start, and Rogers ordered the canoes to be hauled up and hidden among the bushes, where, having done their work, they would for the present be abandoned, to be recovered and made useful on some future occasion. The men charged with the work gave a sudden exclamation when they reached the canoes. "What is that?" Rogers said angrily. "Do you want to bring all the redskins in the forest upon us?" "The canoes are all damaged," one of the scouts said, coming up to him. There was a general movement to the canoes, which were lying on the bank a few yards' distance from the water's edge. Every one of them had been rendered useless. The thin birch bark had been gashed and slit, pieces had been cut out, and not one of them had escaped injury or was fit to take the water. Beyond a few low words, and exclamations of dismay, not a word was spoken as the band gathered round the canoes. "Who were on the watch on this side?" Rogers asked. "Nat and Jonathan took the first half of the night," one of the scouts said. "Williams and myself relieved them." As all four were men of the greatest skill and experience, Rogers felt sure that no neglect or carelessness on their part could have led to the disaster. "Did any of you see any passing boats, or hear any sound on the lake?" The four men who had been on guard replied in the negative. "I will swear no one landed near the canoes," Nat said. "There was a glimmer on the water all night; a canoe could not have possibly come near the bank, anywheres here, without our seeing it." "Then he must have come from the land side," Rogers said. "Some skulking Indian must have seen us out on the lake, and have hidden up when we landed. He may have been in a tree overhead all the time, and, directly the canoes were hauled up, he may have damaged them and made off. "There is no time to be lost, lads. It is five hours since we landed. If he started at once the redskins may be all round us now. It is no question now of our scouting round the French fort, it is one of saving our scalps." "How could it have been done?" James Walsham asked Nat, in a low tone. "We were all sleeping within a few yards of the canoes, and some of the men were close to them. I should have thought we must have heard it." "Heard it!" the hunter said contemptuously; "why, a redskin would make no more noise in cutting them holes and gashes, than you would in cutting a hunk of deer's flesh for your dinner. He would lie on the ground, and wriggle from one to another like an eel; but I reckon he didn't begin till the camp was still. The canoes wasn't hauled up till we had sarched the woods, as we thought, and then we was moving about close by them till we lay down. "I was standing theer on the water's edge not six feet away from that canoe. I never moved for two hours, and, quiet as a redskin may be, he must have taken time to do that damage, so as I never heard a sound as loud as the falling of a leaf. No, I reckon as he was at the very least two hours over that job. He may have been gone four hours or a bit over, but not more; but that don't give us much of a start. It would take him an hour and a half to get to the fort, then he would have to report to the French chap in command, and then there might be some talk before he set out with the redskins, leaving the French to follow." "It's no use thinking of mending the canoes, I suppose," James asked. The hunter shook his head. "It would take two or three hours to get fresh bark and mend those holes," he said, "and we haven't got as many minutes to spare. There, now, we are off." While they had been speaking, Rogers had been holding a consultation with two or three of his most experienced followers, and they had arrived at pretty nearly the same conclusion as that of Rogers, namely, that the Indian had probably taken two or three hours in damaging the canoes and getting fairly away into the forest; but that, even if he had done so, the Iroquois would be up in the course of half an hour. "Let each man pack his share of meat on his back," Rogers said. "Don't leave a scrap behind. Quick, lads, there's not a minute to be lost. It's a case of legs, now. There's no hiding the trail of thirty men from redskin eyes." In a couple of minutes, all were ready for the start, and Rogers at once led the way, at a long slinging trot, straight back from the lake, first saying: "Pick your way, lads, and don't tread on a fallen stick. There is just one chance of saving our scalps, and only one, and that depends upon silence." As James ran along, at the heels of Nat, he was struck with the strangeness of the scene, and the noiselessness with which the band of moccasin-footed men flitted among the trees. Not a word was spoken. All had implicit confidence in their leader, the most experienced bush fighter on the frontier, and knew that, if anyone could lead them safe from the perils that surrounded them, it was Rogers. James wondered what his plan could be. It seemed certain to him that the Indians must, sooner or later, overtake them. They would be aware of the strength of the band, and, confiding in their superior numbers, would be able to push forward in pursuit without pausing for many precautions. Once overtaken, the band must stand at bay, and, even could they hold the Indians in check, the sound of the firing would soon bring the French soldiers to the spot. They had been gone some twenty minutes only, when a distant war whoop rose in the forest behind them. "They have come down on the camp," Nat said, glancing round over his shoulder, "and find we have left it. I expect they hung about a little before they ventured in, knowing as we should be expecting them, when we found the canoes was useless. That war whoop tells 'em all as we have gone. They will gather there, and then be after us like a pack of hounds. "Ah! That is what I thought the captain was up to." Rogers had turned sharp to the left, the direction in which Ticonderoga stood. He slacked down his speed somewhat, for the perspiration was streaming down the faces even of his trained and hardy followers. From time to time, he looked round to see that all were keeping well together. Although, in such an emergency as this, none thought of questioning the judgment of their leader, many of them were wondering at the unusual speed at which he was leading them along. They had some two miles start of their pursuers, and, had evening been at hand, they would have understood the importance of keeping ahead until darkness came on to cover their trail; but, with the whole day before them, they felt that they must be overtaken sooner or later, and they could not see the object of exhausting their strength before the struggle began. As they ran on, at a somewhat slower pace now, an idea as to their leader's intention dawned upon most of the scouts, who saw, by the direction they were taking, that they would again strike the lake shore near the French fort. Nat, who, light and wiry, was running easily, while many of his comrades were panting with their exertions, was now by the side of James Walsham. "Give me your rifle, lad, for a bit. You are new to this work, and the weight of the gun takes it out of you. We have got another nine or ten miles before us, yet." "I can hold on for a bit," James replied. "I am getting my wind better, now; but why only ten miles? We must be seventy away from the fort." "We should never get there," Nat said. "A few of us might do it, but the redskins would be on us in an hour or two. I thought, when we started, as the captain would have told us to scatter, so as to give each of us some chance of getting off; but I see his plan now, and it's the only one as there is which gives us a real chance. He is making straight for the French fort. He reckons, no doubt, as the best part of the French troops will have marched out after the redskins." "But there would surely be enough left," James said, "to hold the fort against us; and, even if we could take it, we could not hold it an hour when they all came up." "He ain't thinking of the fort, boy, he's thinking of the boats. We know as they have lots of 'em there, and, if we can get there a few minutes before the redskins overtake us, we may get off safe. It's a chance, but I think it's a good one." Others had caught their leader's idea and repeated it to their comrades, and the animating effect soon showed itself in the increased speed with which the party hurried through the forest. Before, almost every man had thought their case hopeless, had deemed that they had only to continue their flight until overtaken by the redskins, and that they must, sooner or later, succumb to the rifles of the Iroquois and their French allies. But the prospect that, after an hour's run, a means of escape might be found, animated each man to renewed efforts. After running for some distance longer, Rogers suddenly halted and held up his hand, and the band simultaneously came to a halt. At first, nothing could be heard save their own quick breathing; then a confused noise was heard to their left front, a deep trampling and the sound of voices, and an occasional clash of arms. "It is the French column coming out," Nat whispered, as Rogers, swerving somewhat to the right, and making a sign that all should run as silently as possible, continued his course.	{ "id": "17766" }
12	: A Commission.	Presently the noise made by the column of French troops was heard abreast of the fugitives. Then it died away behind them, and they again directed their course to the left. Ten minutes later, they heard a loud succession of Indian whoops, and knew that the redskins pursuing them had also heard the French column on its march, and would be warning them of the course which the band were taking. The scouts were now but four miles from Ticonderoga, and each man knew that it was a mere question of speed. "Throw away your meat," Rogers ordered, "you will not want it now, and every pound tells." The men had already got rid of their blankets, and were now burdened only with their rifles and ammunition. The ground was rough and broken, for they were nearing the steep promontory on which the French fort had been erected. They were still a mile ahead of their pursuers, and although the latter had gained that distance upon them since the first start, the scouts knew that, now they were exerting themselves to the utmost, the redskins could be gaining but little upon them, for the trained white man is, in point of speed and endurance, fairly a match for the average Indian. They had now descended to within a short distance of the edge of the lake, in order to avoid the valleys and ravines running down from the hills. The war whoops rose frequently in the forest behind them, the Indians yelling to give those at the fort notice that the chase was approaching. "If there war any redskins left at the fort," Nat said to James, "they would guess what our game was; but I expect every redskin started out on the hunt, and the French soldiers, when they hear the yelling, won't know what to make of it, and, if they do anything, they will shut themselves up in their fort." Great as were the exertions which the scouts were making, they could tell, by the sound of the war whoops, that some at least of the Indians were gaining upon them. Accustomed as every man of the party was to the fatigues of the forest, the strain was telling upon them all now. For twelve miles they had run almost at the top of their speed, and the short panting breath, the set faces, and the reeling steps showed that they were nearly at the end of their powers. Still they held on, with scarcely any diminishing of speed. Each man knew that if he fell, he must die, for his comrades could do nothing for him, and no pause was possible until the boats were gained. They were passing now under the French works, for they could hear shouting on the high ground to the right, and knew that the troops left in the fort had taken the alarm; but they were still invisible, for it was only at the point of the promontory that the clearing had been carried down to the water's edge. A low cry of relief burst from the men, as they saw the forest open before them, and a minute later they were running along in the open, near the shore of the lake, at the extremity of the promontory, where, hauled up upon the shore, lay a number of canoes and flat-bottomed boats, used for the conveyance of troops. A number of boatmen were standing near, evidently alarmed by the war cries in the woods. When they saw the party approaching they at once made for the fort, a quarter of a mile away on the high ground, and, almost at the same moment, a dropping fire of musketry opened from the entrenchments. "Smash the canoes," Rogers said, setting the example by administering a vigorous kick to one of them. The others followed his example, and, in a few seconds, every one of the frail barks was stove in. "Two of the boats will hold us well," Rogers said; "quick, into the water with them, and out with the oars. Ten row in each boat. Let the other five handle their rifles, and keep back the Indians as they come up. Never mind the soldiers." For the white-coated troops, perceiving the scouts' intention, were now pouring out from the intrenchments. A couple of minutes sufficed for the men to launch the boats and take their seats, and the oars dipped in the water just as three or four Indians dashed out from the edge of the forest. "We have won the race by three minutes," Rogers said, exultantly. "Stretch to your oars, lads, and get out of range as soon as you can." The Indians began to fire as soon as they perceived the boats. They were scarcely two hundred yards away, but they, like the white men, were panting with fatigue, and their bullets flew harmlessly by. "Don't answer yet," Rogers ordered, as some of the scouts were preparing to fire. "Wait till your hands get steady, and then fire at the French. There won't be many of the redskins up, yet." The boats were not two hundred yards from shore when the French soldiers reached the edge of the water and opened fire, but at this distance their weapons were of little avail, and, though the bullets splashed thickly around the boats, no one was injured, while several of the French were seen to drop from the fire of the scouts. Another hundred yards, and the boats were beyond any danger, save from a chance shot. The Indians still continued firing, and several of their shots struck the boats, one of the rowers being hit on the shoulder. "Lay in your rifles, and man the other two oars in each boat," Rogers said. "The French are launching some of their bateaux, but we have got a fair start, and they won't overtake us before we reach the opposite point. They are fresher than we are, but soldiers are no good rowing; besides, they are sure to crowd the boats so that they won't have a chance." Five or six boats, each crowded with men, started in pursuit, but they were fully half a mile behind when the two English boats reached the shore. "Now it is our turn," Rogers said, as the men, leaping ashore, took their places behind trees. As soon as the French boats came within range, a steady fire was opened upon them. Confusion was at once apparent among them. Oars were seen to drop, and as the fire continued, the rowing ceased. Another minute and the boats were turned, and were soon rowing out again into the lake. "There's the end of that," Rogers said, "and a close shave it has been. "Well, youngster, what do you think of your first scout in the woods?" "It has been sharper than I bargained for," James said, laughing, "and was pretty near being the last, as well as the first. If it hadn't been for your taking us to the boats, I don't think many of us would have got back to Fort Henry to tell the tale." "There is generally some way out of a mess," Rogers said, "if one does but think of it. If I had not thought of the French boats, we should have scattered, and a few of us would have been overtaken, no doubt; but even an Indian cannot follow a single trail as fast as a man can run, and I reckon most of us would have carried our scalps back to camp. Still, with the woods full of Iroquois they must have had some of us, and I hate losing a man if it can be helped. We are well out of it. "Now, lads, we had better be tramping. There are a lot more bateaux coming out, and I expect, by the rowing, they are manned by Indians. The redskin is a first-rate hand with the paddle, but is no good with an oar." The man who had been hit in the shoulder had already had his wound bandaged. There was a minute's consultation as to whether they should continue their journey in the boats, some of the men pointing out that they had proved themselves faster than their pursuers. "That may be," Rogers says; "but the Indians will land and follow along the shore, and will soon get ahead of us, for they can travel quicker than we can row, and, for aught we know, there may be a whole fleet of canoes higher up Lake George which would cut us off. No, lads, the safest way is to keep on through the woods." The decision was received without question, and the party at once started at a swinging trot, which was kept up, with occasional intervals of walking, throughout the day. At nightfall their course was changed, and, after journeying another two or three miles, a halt was called, for Rogers was sure that the Indians would abandon pursuit, when night came on without their having overtaken the fugitives. Before daybreak the march was continued, and, in the afternoon, the party arrived at Fort William Henry. James now determined to leave the force, and return at once to New York, where his letters were to be addressed to him. He took with him a letter from General Johnson, speaking in the warmest tones of his conduct. On arriving at New York he found, at the post office there, a great pile of letters awaiting him. They had been written after the receipt of his letter at the end of July, telling those at home of his share in Braddock's disaster. "I little thought, my boy," his mother wrote, "when we received your letter, saying that you had got your discharge from the ship, and were going with an expedition against the French, that you were going to run into such terrible danger. Fortunately, the same vessel which brought the news of General Braddock's defeat also brought your letter, and we learned the news only a few hours before your letter reached us. It was, as you may imagine, a time of terrible anxiety to us, and the squire and Aggie were almost as anxious as I was. Mr. Wilks did his best to cheer us all, but I could see that he, too, felt it very greatly. However, when your letter came we were all made happy again, though, of course, we cannot be but anxious, as you say you are just going to join another expedition; still, we must hope that that will do better, as it won't be managed by regular soldiers. Mr. Wilks was quite angry at what you said about the folly of making men stand in a line to be shot at, he thinks so much of drill and discipline. The squire and he have been arguing quite fiercely about it; but the squire gets the best of the argument, for the dreadful way in which the soldiers were slaughtered shows that, though that sort of fighting may be good in other places, it is not suited for fighting these wicked Indians in the woods. "The squire has himself been up to London about your commission, and has arranged it all. He has, as he will tell you in his letter, got you a commission in the regiment commanded by Colonel Otway, which is to go out next spring. He was introduced to the commander in chief by his friend, and told him that you had been acting as Colonel Washington's aide-de-camp with General Braddock, and that you have now gone to join General Johnson's army; so the duke said that, though you would be gazetted at once, and would belong to the regiment, you might as well stay out there and see service until it arrived; and that it would be a great advantage to the regiment to have an officer, with experience in Indian fighting, with it. I cried when he brought me back the news, for I had hoped to have you back again with us for a bit, before you went soldiering for good. However, the squire seems to think it is a capital thing for you. Mr. Wilks thinks so, too, so I suppose I must put up with it; but Aggie agrees with me, and says it is too bad that she should never have seen you, once, from the time when she saw you in that storm. "She is a dear little girl, and is growing fast. I think she must have grown quite an inch in the five months you have been away. She sends her love to you, and says you must take care of yourself, for her sake." The squire, in his letter, repeated the news Mrs. Walsham had given. "You are now an ensign," he said, "and, if you go into any more fights before your regiment arrives, you must, Mr. Wilks said, get a proper uniform made for you, and fight as a king's officer. I send you a copy of the gazette, where you will see your name." Mr. Wilks's letter was a long one. "I felt horribly guilty, dear Jim," he said, "when the news came of Braddock's dreadful defeat. I could hardly look your dear mother in the face, and, though the kind lady would not, I know, say a word to hurt my feelings for the world, yet I could see that she regarded me as a monster, for it was on my advice that, instead of coming home when you got your discharge, you remained out there and took part in this unfortunate expedition. I could see Aggie felt the same, and, though I did my best to keep up their spirits, I had a terrible time of it until your letter arrived, saying you were safe. If it had not come, I do believe that I should have gone quietly off to Exeter, hunted up my box again, and hired a boy to push it for me, for I am not so strong as I was. But I would rather have tramped about, for the rest of my life, than remain there under your mother's reproachful eye. However, thank God you came through it all right, and, after such a lesson, I should hope that we shall never have repetition of such a disaster as that. As an old soldier, I cannot agree with what you say about the uselessness of drill, even for fighting in a forest. It must accustom men to listen to the voice of their officers, and to obey orders promptly and quickly, and I cannot but think that, if the troops had gone forward at a brisk double, they would have driven the Indians before them. As to the whooping and yells you talk so much about, I should think nothing of them; they are no more to be regarded than the shrieks of women, or the braying of donkeys." James smiled as he read this, and thought that, if the old soldier had heard that chaos of blood-curdling cries break out, in the still depth of the forest, he would not write of them with such equanimity. "You will have heard, from the squire, that you are gazetted to Otway's regiment which, with others, is to cross the Atlantic in a few weeks, when it is generally supposed war will be formally declared. Your experience will be of great use to you, and ought to get you a good staff appointment. I expect that, in the course of a year, there will be fighting on a large scale on your side of the water, and the English ought to get the best of it, for France seems, at present, to be thinking a great deal more of her affairs in Europe than of her colonies in America. So much the better, for, if we can take Canada, we shall strike a heavy blow to her trade, and some day North America is going to be an important place in the world." The letters had been lying there several weeks, and James knew that Otway's regiment had, with the others, arrived a few days before, and had already marched for Albany. Thinking himself entitled to a little rest, after his labours, he remained for another week in New York, while his uniform was being made, and then took a passage in a trading boat up to Albany. Scarcely had he landed, when a young officer in the same uniform met him. He looked surprised, hesitated, and then stopped. "I see you belong to our regiment," he said. "Have you just arrived from England? What ship did you come in?" "I have been out here some time," James replied. "My name is Walsham. I believe I was gazetted to your regiment some months ago, but I only heard the news on my arrival at New York last week." "Oh, you are Walsham!" the young officer said. "My name is Edwards. I am glad to meet you. We have been wondering when you would join us, and envying your luck, in seeing so much of the fighting out here. Our regiment is encamped about half a mile from here. If you will let me, I will go back with you, and introduce you to our fellows." James thanked him, and the two walked along talking together. James learned that there were already five ensigns junior to himself, his new acquaintance being one of them, as the regiment had been somewhat short of officers, and the vacancies had been filled up shortly before it sailed. "Of course, we must call on the colonel first," Mr. Edwards said. "He is a capital fellow, and very much liked in the regiment." Colonel Otway received James with great cordiality. "We are very glad to get you with us, Mr. Walsham," he said, "and we consider it a credit to the regiment to have a young officer who has been, three times, mentioned in despatches. You will, too, be a great service to us, and will be able to give us a good many hints as to this Indian method of fighting, which Braddock's men found so terrible." "It is not formidable, sir, when you are accustomed to it; but, unfortunately, General Braddock forced his men to fight in regular fashion, that is, to stand up and be shot at, and that mode of fighting, in the woods, is fatal. A hundred redskins would be more than a match, in the forest, for ten times their number of white troops, who persisted in fighting in such a ridiculous way; but, fighting in their own way, white men are a match for the redskins. Indeed, the frontiersmen can thrash the Indians, even if they are two or three to one against them." "You have been in this last affair on the lake, have you not, Mr. Walsham? I heard you were with Johnson." "Yes, sir, I was, and at the beginning it was very nearly a repetition of Braddock's disaster; but, after being surprised and, at first, beaten, the column that went out made such a stout fight of it, that it gave us time to put the camp in a state of defence. Had the Indians made a rush, I think they would have carried it; but, as they contented themselves with keeping up a distant fire, the provincials, who were all young troops, quite unaccustomed to fighting, and wholly without drill or discipline, gradually got steady, and at length sallied out and beat them decisively." "I will not detain you, now," the colonel said; "but I hope, ere long, you will give us a full and detailed account of the fighting you have been in, with your idea of the best way of training regular troops for the sort of work we have before us. Mr. Edwards will take you over to the mess, and introduce you to your brother officers." James was well received by the officers of his regiment, and soon found himself perfectly at home with them. He had to devote some hours, every day, to acquiring the mysteries of drill. It was, to him, somewhat funny to see the pains expended in assuring that each movement should be performed with mechanical accuracy; but he understood that, although useless for such warfare as that which they had before them, great accuracy in details was necessary, for ensuring uniformity of movement among large masses of men in an open country. Otherwise, the time passed very pleasantly. James soon became a favourite in the regiment, and the young officers were never tired of questioning him concerning the redskins, and their manner of fighting. There were plenty of amusements. The snow was deep on the ground, now, and the officers skated, practised with snowshoes, and drove in sleighs. Occasionally they got up a dance, and the people of Albany, and the settlers round, vied with each other in their hospitality to the officers. One day, in February, an orderly brought a message to James Walsham, that the colonel wished to speak to him. "Walsham," he said, "I may tell you, privately, that the regiment is likely to form part of the expedition which is being fitted out, in England, against Louisbourg in Cape Breton, the key of Canada. A considerable number of the troops from the province will accompany it." "But that will leave the frontier here altogether open to the enemy," James said in surprise. "That is my own opinion, Walsham. Louisbourg is altogether outside the range of the present struggle, and it seems to me that the British force should be employed at striking at a vital point. However, that is not to the purpose. It is the Earl of Loudon's plan. However, it is manifest, as you say, that the frontier will be left terribly open, and therefore two companies of each of the regiments going will be left. Naturally, as you are the only officer in the regiment who has had any experience in this forest warfare, you would be one of those left here; but as an ensign you would not have much influence, and I think that it would be at once more useful to the service, and more pleasant for yourself, if I can obtain for you something like a roving commission. What do you think of that?" "I should greatly prefer that, sir," James said gratefully. "The general is a little vexed, I know," the colonel went on, "at the numerous successes, and daring feats, gained by Rogers and the other leaders of the companies of scouts, while the regulars have not had an opportunity to fire a shot: and I think that he would, at once, accept the proposal were I to make it to him, that a company, to be called the Royal Scouts, should be formed of volunteers taken from the various regiments, and that you should have the command." "Thank you, sir," James said, "and I should like it above all things; but I fear that we should have no chance, whatever, of rivalling the work of Rogers and the other partisan leaders. These men are all trained to the work of the woods, accustomed to fight Indians, equally at home in a canoe or in the forest. I have had, as you are good enough to say, some experience in the work, but I am a mere child by their side, and were I to lead fifty English soldiers in the forest, I fear that none of us would ever return." "Yes, but I should not propose that you should engage in enterprises of that sort, Walsham. My idea is that, although you would have an independent command, with very considerable freedom of action, you would act in connection with the regular troops. The scouts are often far away when wanted, leaving the posts open to surprise. They are so impatient of any discipline, that they are adverse to going near the forts, except to obtain fresh supplies. You, on the contrary, would act as the eyes of any post which you might think threatened by the enemy. At present, for instance, Fort William Henry is the most exposed to attack. "You would take your command there, and would report yourself to Major Eyre, who is in command. As for service there, your letter of appointment would state that you are authorized to act independently, but that, while it would be your duty to obey the orders of the commanding officer, you will be authorized to offer such suggestions to him as your experience in Indian warfare would lead you to make. You would train your men as scouts. It would be their special duty to guard the fort against surprise, and, of course, in case of attack to take part in its defence. In the event of the provincial scouts making any concerted movement against a French post, you would be authorized to join them. You would then have the benefit of their skill and experience, and, in case of success, the army would get a share of the credit. What do you think of my plan?" "I should like it above all things," James replied. "That would be precisely the duty which I should select had I the choice." "I thought so," the colonel said. "I have formed a very high opinion of your judgment and discretion, from the talks which we have had together, and I have spoken strongly in your favour to the general, who had promised me that, in the event of the army moving forward, you should have an appointment on the quartermaster general's staff, as an intelligence officer. "Since I heard that the main portion of the army is to sail to Louisbourg, I have been thinking this plan over, and it certainly seems to me that a corps, such as that that I have suggested, would be of great service. I should think that its strength should be fifty men. You will, of course, have another officer with you. Is there anyone you would like to choose, as I may as well take the whole scheme, cut and dried, to the general?" "I should like Mr. Edwards, sir. He is junior to me in the regiment, and is very active and zealous in the service; and I should greatly like to be allowed to enlist, temporarily, two of the scouts I have served with in the force, with power for them to take their discharge when they wished. They would be of immense utility to me in instructing the men in their new duties, and would add greatly to our efficiency." "So be it," the colonel said. "I will draw out the scheme on paper, and lay it before the general today." In the afternoon, James was again sent for. "The earl has approved of my scheme. You will have temporary rank as captain given you, in order to place your corps on an equal footing with the provincial corps of scouts. Mr. Edwards will also have temporary rank, as lieutenant. The men of the six companies, of the three regiments, will be paraded tomorrow, and asked for volunteers for the special service. If there are more than fifty offer, you can select your own men." Accordingly, the next morning, the troops to be left behind were paraded, and an order was read out, saying that a corps of scouts for special service was to be raised, and that volunteers were requested. Upwards of a hundred men stepped forward, and, being formed in line, James selected from them fifty who appeared to him the most hardy, active, and intelligent looking. He himself had, that morning, been put in orders as captain of the new corps, and had assumed the insignia of his temporary rank. The colonel had placed at his disposal two intelligent young non-commissioned officers. The next morning, he marched with his command for Fort William Henry. No sooner had he left the open country, and entered the woods, than he began to instruct the men in their new duties. The whole of them were thrown out as skirmishers, and taught to advance in Indian fashion, each man sheltering himself behind a tree, scanning the woods carefully ahead, and then, fixing his eyes on another tree ahead, to advance to it at a sharp run, and shelter there. All this was new to the soldiers, hitherto drilled only in solid formation, or in skirmishing in the open, and when, at the end of ten miles skirmishing through the wood, they were halted and ordered to bivouac for the night, James felt that his men were beginning to have some idea of forest fighting. The men themselves were greatly pleased with their day's work. It was a welcome change after the long monotony of life in a standing camp, and the day's work had given them a high opinion of the fitness of their young officer for command. But the work and instruction was not over for the day. Hitherto, none of the men had had any experience in camping in the open. James now showed them how to make comfortable shelters against the cold, with two forked sticks and one laid across them, and with a few boughs and a blanket laid over them, with dead leaves heaped round the bottom and ends; and how best to arrange their fires and cook their food. During the following days, the same work was repeated, and when, after a week's marching, the force issued from the forest into the clearing around Fort William Henry, James felt confident that his men would be able to hold their own in a brush with the Indians. Major Eyre, to whom James reported himself, and showed his appointment defining his authority and duties, expressed much satisfaction at the arrival of the reinforcement. "There are rumours, brought here by the scouts," he said, "that a strong force will, ere long, come down from Crown Point to Ticonderoga, and that we shall be attacked. Now that the lake is frozen, regular troops could march without difficulty, and my force here is very inadequate, considering the strength with which the French will attack. None of my officers or men have any experience of the Indian methods of attack, and your experience will be very valuable. It is a pity that they do not give me one of these companies of scouts permanently. Sometimes one or other of them is here, but often I am without any of the provincials, and, although I have every confidence in my officers and men, one cannot but feel that it is a great disadvantage to be exposed to the attack of an enemy of whose tactics one is altogether ignorant. "You will, of course, encamp your men inside the fort. I see you have brought no baggage with you, but I have some spare tents here, which are at your service." "Thank you, sir," James replied; "I shall be glad to put the men under cover, while they are here, but I intend to practise them, as much as possible, in scouting and camping in the woods, and, although I shall always be in the neighbourhood of the fort, I do not propose always to return here at night. Are any of Captain Rogers's corps at present at the fort?" "Some of them came in last night," Major Eyre replied. "I have authority," James said, "to enlist two of them in my corps." Major Eyre smiled. "I do not think you will find any of them ready to submit to military discipline, or to put on a red coat." "They are all accustomed to obey orders, promptly enough, when at work," James said, "though there is no attempt at discipline when off duty. You see them at their worst here. There is, of course, nothing like military order in the woods, but obedience is just as prompt as among our troops. As to the uniform, I agree with you, but on that head I should not be particular. I can hardly fancy any of the scouts buttoned tightly up with stiff collars; but as, after all, although they are to be enlisted, they will be attached to the corps, rather than be regular members of it, I do not think I need insist upon the uniform." After leaving the major, James saw to the pitching of the tents, and the comforts of his men, and when he had done so strolled off towards a group of scouts, who were watching his proceedings, and among whom he recognized the two men for whom he was looking. He received a cordial greeting from all who had taken part in his previous adventures with Captain Rogers's band. "And so you are in command of this party?" Nat said. "I asked one of the men just now, and he said you were the captain. You are young to be a captain, but, at any rate, it's a good thing to have a king's officer here who knows something about the woods. The rest ain't no more idea of them than nothing." "I want to chat to you, Nat, and also to Jonathan, if you will come across with me to my tent." "I'm agreeable," Nat said; and the two scouts walked across to the tent with James. Lieutenant Edwards, who shared the tent with him, was inside, arranging a few things which Major Eyre had sent down for their use. "Edwards, these are the two scouts, Nat and Jonathan, of whom you have often heard me speak. Now, let us sit down and have a chat. "There is some first-rate rum in that bottle, Nat. There are two tin pannikins, and there is water in that keg. "Now, Nat," he went on, when the party were seated on blankets laid on the ground, "this corps of mine has been raised, specially, to act as scouts round this or any other fort which may be threatened, or to act as the advanced guard of a column of troops." "But what do they know of scouting?" Nat said contemptuously. "They don't know no more than children." "They don't know much, but they are active fellows, and ready to learn. I think you will find that, already, they have a pretty fair idea of fighting in Indian fashion in the woods, and, as I have authority to draw extra supplies of ball cartridge, I hope, in a few weeks, to make fair shots of them. You have taught me something of forest ways, and I shall teach them all I know; but we want better teachers, and I want to propose, to you and Jonathan, to join the corps." "What, and put on a red coat, and choke ourselves up with a stiff collar!" Nat laughed. "Nice figures we should look! No, no, captain, that would never do." "No, I don't propose that you should wear uniform, Nat. I have got a special authority to enlist you and Jonathan, with the understanding that you can take your discharge whenever you like. There will be no drilling in line, or anything of that sort. It will be just scouting work, the same as with Captain Rogers, except that we shall not make long expeditions, as he does, but keep in the neighbourhood of the fort. I should want you to act both as scouts and instructors, to teach the men, as you have taught me, something of woodcraft, how to find their way in a forest, and how to fight the Indians in their own way, and to be up to Indian devices. You will be guides on the line of march, will warn me of danger, and suggest the best plan of meeting it. You will, in fact, be scouts attached to the corps, only nominally you will be members of it. I know your ways, and should not exact any observance of discipline, more than that which you have with Rogers, and should treat you in the light of non-commissioned officers." "Well, and what do you say, Jonathan?" Nat said, turning to his tall companion. "You and I have both taken a fancy to the captain here, and though he has picked up a lot for a young 'un, and will in time make a first-rate hand in the woods, I guess he won't make much hand of it, yet, if he hadn't got someone as knows the woods by his side. We have had a spell of hard work of it with Rogers lately, and I don't mind if I have a change, for a bit, with the redcoats." "I will go, of course," Jonathan said briefly. "Very well, then, that's settled, captain," Nat said. "Rogers will be in tonight, and I will tell him we are going to transfer ourselves over to you." "He won't mind, I hope," James said. "He won't mind," Nat replied. "We ain't very particular about times of service in our corps. We just comes and goes, pretty well as the fancy takes us. They would never get us to join, if they wanted to get us to bind down hard and fast. Sometimes they start on an expedition fifty strong, next time perhaps not more than thirty turns up. "Is there anything to do to join the corps?" "Not much, Nat. I give you each a shilling and attest you, that is to say, swear you in to serve the king, and, in your case, give you a paper saying that you are authorized to take your discharge, whensoever it pleases you." "Very well, captain. Then on those terms we join, always understood as we don't have to put on red coats." The two men were sworn in, and then Nat, standing up, said: "And now, captain, discipline is discipline. What's your orders?" James went to the door of the tent, and called the sergeant. "Sergeant, these two men are enlisted as scouts in the corps. They will draw rations, and be a regular part of the company like the rest, but they will not wear uniform, acting only as scouts. They will have the rank and position of corporals, and will specially instruct the men in woodcraft, and in the ways of the Indians. They will, of course, occupy the tent with the non-commissioned officers, and will mess with them. Being engaged as scouts, only, they will in other respects be free from anything like strictness. I trust that you will do what you can to make them comfortable." The sergeant saluted, and led the two scouts over to the tent occupied by himself and the other non-commissioned officers, and the roars of laughter that issued from it in the course of the evening, at the anecdotes of the scouts, showed that the newcomers were likely to be highly popular characters in their mess.	{ "id": "17766" }
13	: An Abortive Attack.	Three weeks passed. James kept his men steadily at work, and even the scouts allowed that they made great progress. Sometimes they went out in two parties, with an officer and a scout to each, and their pouches filled with blank cartridge. Each would do its best to surprise the other; and, when they met, a mimic fight would take place, the men sheltering behind trees, and firing only when they obtained a glimpse of an adversary. "I did not think that these pipe-clayed soldiers could have been so spry," Nat said to James. "They have picked up wonderfully, and I wouldn't mind going into an Indian fight with them. They are improving with their muskets. Their shooting yesterday wasn't bad, by no means. In three months' time, they will be as good a lot to handle as any of the companies of scouts." Besides the daily exercises, the company did scouting work at night, ten men being out, by turns, in the woods bordering the lake. At one o'clock in the morning, on the 19th of March, Nat came into the officers' tent. "Captain," he said, "get up. There's something afoot." "What is it, Nat?" James asked, as he threw off his rugs. "It's the French, at least I don't see who else it can be. It was my turn tonight to go round and look after our sentries. When I came to Jim Bryan, who was stationed just at the edge of the lake, I said to him, 'Anything new, Jim?' and he says, 'Yes; seems to me as I can hear a hammering in the woods.' I listens, and sure enough axes were going. It may be some three miles down. The night is still, and the ice brought the sound. " 'That's one for you, Jim,' says I. 'Them's axes sure enough.' I stands and looks, and then a long way down the lake on the left I sees a faint glare. They had had the sense to light the fires where we couldn't see them; but there were the lights, sure enough. It's the French, captain, the redskins would never have made fires like that, and if it had been a party of our scouts, they would have come on here, and not halted an hour's tramp away. "You had best get the troops under arms, captain. Who would have thought they would have been such fools as to light their fires within sight of the fort!" James at once went to Major Eyre's quarters, and aroused him, and in a few minutes the garrison were all under arms. Their strength, including James Walsham's corps, and some scouts of the company of John Stark, numbered three hundred and forty-six men, besides which there were a hundred and twenty-eight invalids in hospital. Two hours passed, and then a confused sound, as of a great body of men moving on the ice, was heard. The ice was bare of snow, and nothing could be seen, but the cannon on the side facing the lake at once opened fire, with grape and round shot, in the direction of the sound. After firing for a few minutes, they were silent. The sound on the ice could no longer be heard. "They have taken to the woods," Nat, who had taken up his station next to James Walsham, said. "It ain't likely they would stop on the ice with the balls pounding it up." "Do you think they will attack before morning?" James asked. "It ain't likely," Nat replied. "They won't know the positions, and, such a dark night as this, they wouldn't be able to make out anything about them. If they could have come straight along the ice to the head of the lake here, they would have made a dash, no doubt; but now they find we ain't to be caught asleep, I expect they will wait till morning." Again the sound of axes was heard in the wood, and the glare of light appeared above the trees. "There must be a tidy lot of 'em," Nat said. "Do you think it will be any use to go out and try to surprise them?" "Not a bit, captain. They are sure to have a lot of redskins with them, and they will be lurking in the woods, in hopes that we may try such a move. No; we have got a strong position here, and can lick them three to one; but in the woods, except Stark's men, and perhaps yours, none of the others wouldn't be no good at all." Mayor Eyre, shortly afterwards, sent for James, who gave him the opinion of the scout, and the major then ordered the troops to get under shelter again, leaving Stark's men to act as sentries, for the night was bitterly cold. It was not until ten o'clock next day that the French appeared, and, surrounding the fort on all sides, except on that of the lake, opened heavy musketry fire upon it. They were a formidable body. Vaudreuil, the governor of Canada, had spared no pains to make the blow a successful one. The force had been assembled at Crown Point, and numbered sixteen hundred regulars, Canadians, and Indians. Everything needful for their comfort had been provided--overcoats, blankets, bear skins to sleep on, and tarpaulins to cover them. They had been provided with twelve days' provisions, which were placed on hand sledges and drawn by the troops. They marched, over the ice of Lake Champlain, down to Ticonderoga, where they rested a week, and constructed three hundred scaling ladders. Three days' further march, up Lake George, brought them to the English fort. The weak point of the expedition was its leader, for Vaudreuil, who was himself a Canadian, had the greatest jealousy of the French officers, and had intrusted the command of the expedition to his brother, Rigaud. The fire did no damage, as the garrison lay sheltered behind their entrenchments, replying occasionally whenever the enemy mustered in force, as if with an intention of attacking. "I don't think they mean business, this time, captain," Nat said in a tone of disgust. "Why, there are enough of them to eat us, if they could but make up their minds to come on. They don't suppose they are going to take William Henry by blazing a way at it half a mile off!" "Perhaps they are going to make a night attack," James said. "They will have learned all about the position of our works." "Maybe so," Nat replied; "but I don't think so. When chaps don't attack at once, when there are four or five to one, I reckon that they ain't likely to attack at all. They meant to surprise us, and they haven't, and it seems to me as it has taken all the heart out of them." As evening approached, the fire ceased. At nightfall, strong guards were placed round the entrenchments, and the troops retired to their quarters, ready to turn out at a minute's notice. About midnight they were called out. There was again a sound on the lake. The cannon at once opened, and, as before, all was silent again. "Look, Walsham, look!" Edwards exclaimed. "They have set fire to the sloops." As he spoke, a tongue of flame started up from one of the two vessels lying in the ice, close to the shore, and, almost simultaneously, flames shot up from among the boats drawn up on the beach. "That's redskin work," Nat exclaimed. "Come, lads," James cried, leaping down from the low earthwork into the ditch. "Let us save the boats, if we can." The scouts followed him and ran down to the shore; but the Indians had done their work well. The two sloops, and many of the boats, were well alight, and it was evident at once that, long before a hole could be broken through the ice, and buckets brought down from the fort, they would be beyond all hopes of saving them. The French, too, opened fire from the woods bordering the lake, and, as the light of the flames exposed his men to the enemy's marksmen, James at once called them back to the fort, and the sloops and boats burned themselves out. At noon, next day, the French filed out from the woods on to the ice, at a distance of over a mile. "What now?" Edwards exclaimed. "They surely don't mean to be fools enough to march across the ice to attack us in broad daylight." "It looks to me," James replied, "as if they wanted to make a full show of their force. See, there is a white flag, and a party are coming forward." An officer and several men advanced towards the fort, and Major Eyre sent out one of his officers, with an equal number of men, to meet them. There was a short parley when the parties came together, and then the French officer advanced towards the fort with the English, his followers remaining on the ice. On nearing the fort, the French officer, Le Mercier, chief of the Canadian artillery, was blindfolded, and led to the room where Major Eyre, with all the British officers, was awaiting him. The handkerchief was then removed from his eyes, and he announced to the commandant that he was the bearer of a message from the officer commanding the French force, who, being desirous of avoiding an effusion of blood, begged the English commander to abstain from resistance, which, against a force so superior to his own, could but be useless. He offered the most favourable terms, if he would surrender the place peaceably, but said that if he were driven to make an assault, his Indian allies would unquestionably massacre the whole garrison. Major Eyre quietly replied that he intended to defend himself to the utmost. The envoy was again blindfolded. When he rejoined the French force, the latter at once advanced as if to attack the place, but soon halted, and, leaving the ice, opened a fusillade from the border of the woods, which they kept up for some hours, the garrison contemptuously abstaining from any reply. At night, the French were heard advancing again, the sound coming from all sides. The garrison stood to their arms, believing that this time the real attack was about to be made. Nearer and nearer came the sound, and the garrison, who could see nothing in the pitchy darkness, fired wherever they could hear a sound. Presently a bright light burst up. The redskins, provided with faggots of resinous sticks, had crept up towards some buildings, consisting of several store houses, a hospital, and saw mill, and the huts and tents of the rangers, and, having placed their torches against them, set them on fire and instantly retreated. The garrison could do nothing to save the buildings, as their efforts, in the absence of water, must be unavailing, and they would have been shot down by the foe lying beyond the circle of light. They therefore remained lying behind the entrenchment, firing wherever they heard the slightest sound, and momentarily expecting an attack; but morning came without the French advancing, and the garrison were then able to give their whole attention to saving the buildings in the fort. Some great wood stacks had now ignited, and the burning embers fell thickly on the huts, and for some hours it was only by the greatest exertions that the troops were able to save the buildings from destruction. Every moment they expected to be attacked, for, had the French advanced, the huts must have been left to themselves, in which case the garrison would have found themselves shelterless, and all their provisions and stores would have been consumed; but before noon the danger was over, for not only had the fires begun to burn low, but a heavy snow storm set in. All day it continued. "Now would be the time for them to attack," James Walsham said to his lieutenant. "We can scarce see twenty yards away." "Now is their chance," Edwards agreed; "but I don't believe in their attacking. I can't think who they have got in command. He ought to be shot, a man with such a force as he has, hanging about here for four days when he could have carried the place, with a rush, any moment." "No, I don't think they will attack," James replied. "Men who will stop to light a fire to warm themselves, within sight of an enemy's fort they want to surprise, are not likely to venture out of shelter of their blankets in such a snow as this." All day and all night the snow came down, till the ground was covered to a depth of over three feet. Early on Tuesday morning, twenty volunteers of the French regulars made a bold attempt to burn a sloop building on the stocks, with several storehouses and other structures near the water, and some hundreds of boats and canoes which were ranged near them. They succeeded in firing the sloop, and some buildings, but James, with his scouts, sallied out and forced them to retreat, with the loss of five of their number; and, by pulling down some of the huts, prevented the fire spreading. Next morning the sun rose brightly, and the white sheet of the lake was dotted with the French, in full retreat for Canada. Their total loss had been eleven killed and wounded, while, on the English side, seven men had been wounded, all slightly. Never was a worse conducted or more futile expedition. After this affair, the time passed slowly at Fort William Henry. Until the sun gained strength enough to melt the thick white covering of the earth, James practised his men in the use of snowshoes, and, as soon as spring had fairly commenced, resumed the work of scouting. This was done only as an exercise, for there was no fear that, after such a humiliating failure, the French would, for some time to come, attempt another expedition against the fort. In the autumn of 1756, General Montcalm had come out from France to take the command of the French troops. Few of the superior officers of the French army cared to take the command, in a country where the work was hard and rough, and little glory was to be obtained. Therefore the minister of war was able, for once, to choose an officer fitted for the post, instead of being obliged, as usual, to fill up the appointment by a court favourite. The Marquis of Montcalm was born at the chateau of Candiac, near Nimes, on the 29th of February, 1712. At the age of fifteen, up to which time he had studied hard, he entered the army. Two years later he became a captain, and was first under fire at the siege of Philipsbourg. In 1736 he married Mademoiselle Du Boulay, who brought him influential connections and some property. In 1741 Montcalm took part in the campaign in Bohemia. Two years later he was made colonel, and passed unharmed through the severe campaign of 1744. In the following year he fought in the campaign in Italy, and, in 1746, was wounded at the disastrous action at Piacenza, where he twice rallied his regiment, received five sabre cuts, and was made prisoner. He was soon liberated on parole, and was promoted, in the following year, to the rank of brigadier general, and, being exchanged for an officer of similar rank, rejoined the army, and was again wounded by a musket shot. Shortly afterwards the peace of Aix la Chapelle was signed, and Montcalm remained living quietly with his family, to whom he was tenderly attached, until informed, by the minister of war, that he had selected him to command the troops in North America, with the rank of major general. The Chevalier de Levis was appointed second in command. No sooner did Montcalm arrive in America, than difficulties arose between him and the Marquis de Vaudreuil, the governor, who had hoped to have himself received the appointment of commander of the French forces, and who, in virtue of his office, commanded the Canadian militia. From first to last this man opposed and thwarted Montcalm, doing all in his power to injure him, by reports to France in his disfavour. The misfortunes which befell France during the war were, in no slight degree, due to this divided authority, and to the obstacles thrown in the way of Montcalm by the governor. Montcalm's first blow against the English was struck in August, 1756, six months before the attack on Fort William Henry, which had been arranged by Vaudreuil. Three battalions of regular troops, with 700 Canadians and 250 Indians, with a strong force of artillery, were quietly concentrated at Fort Frontenac, and were intended for an attack upon the important English post of Oswego. Fighting had been going on in this neighbourhood for some time, and it was from Oswego that Shirley had intended to act against Niagara and Frontenac. That enterprise had fallen through, owing to Shirley having been deprived of the command; but a sharp fight had taken place between Colonel Bradstreet and his armed boatmen, and 1100 French, who were beaten off. Oswego was a place of extreme importance. It was the only English post on Ontario, situated as it was towards the southwest corner of the lake. So long as it remained in their possession, it was a standing menace against the whole line of communications of the French with the south. Owing to gross neglect, the fort had never been placed in a really defensive condition. The garrison was small, and crippled with the fever, which had carried off great numbers of them. The remainder were ill fed and discontented. On the 12th of August, the Earl of London sent Colonel Webb, with the 44th Regiment and some of Bradstreet's boatmen, to reinforce Oswego. They should have started a month before, and, had they done so, would have been in time; but confusion and misunderstanding had arisen from a change in command. Webb had scarcely made half his march, when tidings of the disaster met him, and he at once fell back with the greatest precipitation. At midnight on the 10th, Montcalm had landed his force within half a league of the first English fort. Four cannon were at once landed, and a battery thrown up, and so careless of danger were the garrison, that it was not till the morning that the invaders were discovered. Two armed vessels at once sailed down to cannonade them; but their light guns were no match for the heavy artillery of the French, and they were forced to retire. The attack was commenced without delay. The Indians and Canadians, swarming in the forest round the fort, kept up a hot fire upon it. By nightfall the first parallel was marked out at 180 yards from the rampart. Fort Ontario, considered the strongest of the three forts at Oswego, stood on a high plateau on the right side of the river, where it entered the lake. It was in the shape of a star, and formed of a palisade of trunks of trees set upright in the ground, hewn flat on both sides, and closely fitted together--an excellent defence against musketry, but worthless against artillery. The garrison of the fort, 370 in number, had eight small cannon and a mortar, with which, all next day, they kept up a brisk fire against the battery which the French were throwing up, and arming with twenty-six pieces of heavy artillery. Colonel Mercer, the commandant of Oswego, saw at once that the French artillery would, as soon as they opened fire, blow the stockade into pieces, and thinking it better to lose the fort, alone, than the fort and its garrison, he sent boats across the river after nightfall, and the garrison, having spiked their guns, and thrown their ammunition into the well, crossed the river, unperceived by the French. But Oswego was in no position for defence. Fort Pepperell stood on the mouth of the river, facing Fort Ontario. Towards the west and south the place was protected by an outer line of earthworks, mounted with cannon, but the side facing the river was wholly exposed, in the belief that Fort Ontario would prevent any attack in this direction. Montcalm lost no time. The next evening, his whole force set to work throwing up a battery, at the edge of the rising ground on which Fort Ontario stood, and, by daybreak, twenty heavy guns were in position, and at once opened fire. The grape and round shot swept the English position, smashing down the mud-built walls, crashing through the stockades, and carrying destruction among the troops. The latter made a shelter of pork barrels, three high and three deep, and planted cannon behind them, and returned the enemy's fire; but the Canadians and Indians had crossed the river, by a ford two miles up, and soon opened fire from all sides. Colonel Mercer, who had bravely led his men, and inspired them by his example, was cut in two by a cannon shot, and the garrison were seized with despair. A council of officers was held, and the garrison surrendered as prisoners of war, to the number of sixteen hundred, which included sick, the sailors belonging to the shipping, labourers, and upwards of a hundred women. Montcalm had the greatest difficulty in preventing the Indians, by means of threats, promises, and presents, from massacring the prisoners. Oswego was burned to the ground, the forts and vessels on the stocks destroyed, and, the place having been made a desert, the army returned with their prisoners and spoil to Montreal. The loss of Oswego had inflicted a very severe blow to the influence and prestige of England, among the Indians of the lake districts, but this was partly restored by the failure of the French expedition against William Henry, early in the following spring. The expedition against Louisbourg, to strengthen which the western frontier had been denuded of troops, proved a failure. A great delay had taken place at home, in consequence of ministerial changes, and it was not until the 5th of May that fifteen ships of the line and three frigates, under Admiral Holbourne, with 5000 troops on board, sailed from England for Halifax, where Loudon was to meet him with the forces from the colony. But, while the English fleet had been delaying, the French government had obtained information of its destination, and had sent three French squadrons across the Atlantic to Louisbourg. It was the 10th of July before the united English force assembled at Halifax, and there fresh delays arose. The troops, nearly twelve thousand in number, were landed, and weeks were spent in idle drill. At the beginning of August the forces were again embarked, when a sloop came in from Newfoundland, bringing letters which had been captured on board a French ship. From these, it appeared that there were twenty-two ships of the line, besides several frigates, in the harbour of Louisbourg, and that 7000 troops were in garrison, in what was by far the strongest fortress on the continent. Success was now impossible, and the enterprise was abandoned. Loudon, with his troops, sailed back to New York; and Admiral Holbourne, who had been joined by four additional ships, sailed for Louisbourg, in hopes that the French fleet would come out and fight him. He cruised for some time off the port, but Lamotte, the French admiral, would not come out. In September, a tremendous gale burst upon the British fleet: one ship was dashed on the rocks, a short distance from Louisbourg, and only a sudden shift of the wind saved the rest from a total destruction. Nine were dismasted, and others threw their cannon into the sea. Had Lamotte sailed out on the following day, the English fleet was at his mercy. Fortunately he did not do so, and Holbourne returned to England. The French in Canada were aware that Loudon had gathered all his troops at New York, and was preparing for an expedition, which was to be aided by a fleet from England; but, thinking it probable that it was directed against Quebec, the most vital point in Canada, since its occupation by the English would entirely cut the colony off from France, Montcalm was obliged to keep his forces in hand near that town, and was unable to take advantage of the unprotected state in which Loudon had left the frontier of the colonies. As soon, however, as, by despatch received from France, and by the statements of prisoners captured by the Indians on the frontier, Montcalm learned that the expedition, which had just left New York, was destined for Louisbourg, he was at liberty to utilize his army for the invasion of the defenceless colonies, and he determined to commence the campaign by the capture of Fort William Henry. James Walsham, with his company of Royal Scouts, had spent the spring at Fort William Henry. Loudon had, at first, sent an order for the corps to be broken up, and the men to rejoin their respective regiments, and to accompany them on the expedition; but the earnest representations of Colonel Monro of the 35th Regiment, who was now in command, of the total inadequacy of the garrison to defend itself, should a serious attack be made from Ticonderoga; and of the great value to him of the corps under Captain Walsham, which was now thoroughly trained in forest fighting, induced him to countermand the order. James was glad that he was not obliged to rejoin his regiment. The independent command was a pleasant one, and although life at Fort William Henry had, since the French repulse, been an uneventful one, there was plenty of fishing in the lake, and shooting in the woods, to vary the monotony of drill. He and Edwards were now both expert canoemen, and often ventured far down the lake, taking with them one or other of the scouts, and keeping a sharp lookout among the woods on either side for signs of the enemy. Once or twice they were chased by Indian canoes, but always succeeded in distancing them. "The news has just come in that the expedition has sailed," James said as he one day, towards the end of July, entered the hut which he now occupied with Edwards; for the corps had long since been put under huts, these being better suited for the hot season than tents. "It is rather a nuisance," Edwards grumbled, "being kept here, instead of going and taking share in a big siege." "Don't be impatient, Edwards," James replied. "If I am not greatly mistaken, you will have quite as much fighting as you want here before long. Montcalm's sudden attack on Oswego last autumn showed that he is an enterprising general, and I have no doubt that, as soon as he learns that Loudon's expedition is not intended for Quebec, he will be beating us up on the frontier with a vengeance." Montcalm, indeed, had already prepared to strike a blow. A thousand Indians, lured by the prospect of gifts, scalps, and plunder, had come in from the west and north, and were encamped near Montreal; and, besides these, there were the Mission Indians, and those of the Five Nations who adhered to France. Early in July, the movement began. Day after day, fleets of boats and canoes rowed up Lake Champlain, and, towards the end of the month, the whole force was gathered at Ticonderoga. Here were now collected eight thousand men, of whom two thousand were Indians, representing forty-one tribes and sub-tribes: among them were Iroquois, Hurons, Nipissings, Abenakis, Algonkins, Micmacs, and Malecites. These were all nominal Christians, and counted eight hundred warriors. With them were the western Indians: Ojibwas, Mississagas, Pottawattamies, Menomonies, Sacs, Foxes, Winnebagoes, Miamis, and Iowas. These were still unconverted. The French held these savage allies in abhorrence. Their drunkenness, their turbulence, their contempt of all orders, their cruelty to their captives, and their cannibalism, disgusted and shocked Montcalm and his officers; but they were powerless to restrain them, for without them as scouts, guides, and eyes in the forests, the French could have done nothing, and, at the slightest remonstrance, the Indians were ready to take offence, and to march away to their distant homes. The letters of Montcalm and his officers, to their friends, were full of disgust at the doings of their savage allies, and of regret that they could not dispense with their services, or restrain their ferocity. Vaudreuil and the Canadians, on the other hand, accustomed to the traditions of savage warfare, made no attempt whatever to check the ferocity of the Indians, and were, indeed, the instigators of the raids which the savages made upon the unprotected villages and settlements on the frontier; offered rewards for scalps, and wrote and talked gleefully of the horrible atrocities committed upon the colonists.	{ "id": "17766" }
14	: Scouting On Lake Champlain.	One morning, Colonel Monro sent for James. "Captain Walsham," he said, "there are rumours that the French are gathering at Crown Point in considerable force. Captain Rogers is still disabled by his wound, and his band have suffered so heavily, in their last affair with the enemy, that for the time they are out of action. It is important that I should learn the truth of these rumours, for, if they be true, I must communicate at once to the general, in order that he may get together a sufficient force to relieve us, if Montcalm comes down and lays siege to the fort. Will you undertake the business?" "I will do my best, sir," James replied. "Do you propose that I should take all my company, or only a picked party?" "That I will leave to you, Captain Walsham. I want trustworthy news, and how you obtain it for me matters little." "Then I will take only a small party," James said. "Fifty men would be useless, for purposes of fighting, if the enemy are numerous, while with such a number it would be hopeless to attempt to escape detection by the Indians. The fewer the better for such an enterprise." On leaving the commandant, James at once summoned the two hunters to his hut, and told them the mission he had received. "I am ready, captain, that is if you, and I, and Jonathan makes up the party. As to going trapezing about round Crown Point with fifty soldiers, the thing ain't to be thought of. We should be there no more than half an hour before the Indians would know of it, and we should have no show either for fighting or running away. No, captain, the lads are good enough for scouting about round camp here; but, as for an expedition of that sort, we might as well start with a drove of swine." "That is just what I thought, Nat. One canoe may escape even the eyes of the Indians, but a dozen would have no chance of doing so." "We might get up the lakes," the scout said; "but the mischief would be in the woods. No, it never would do, captain. If we goes, it must be the three of us and no more. When do you think of starting?" "The sooner the better, Nat." "Very well, captain, I will go and get some grub ready, and, as soon as it gets dusk, we will get the canoe into the water." "I suppose you can't take me with you?" Lieutenant Edwards said, when James told him of the duty he had been requested to perform. "It is dismal here." "Not exactly," James laughed. "What would become of the company, if it were to lose its two officers and its two scouts at a blow! No, Edwards, you will command during my absence, and I think you will soon have more lively times here, for, if it be true that Montcalm will himself command the troops coming against us, it will be a different business altogether from the last. And now, leave me alone for an hour. I have some letters to write before I start. They will be for you to send off, in case we don't come back again. "Don't look serious, I have no intention of falling into the hands of Montcalm's savages. Still, there is no doubt the expedition is a risky one, and it is just as well to be prepared." Just as the sun was setting, Nat came into the officer's hut. "Everything is ready, captain," he said. "I hope you have made a good dinner, for it's the last hot meal you will eat, till you get back. I have cooked enough meat for the next four days, and that's about as long as it will keep good; after that, dried deer's flesh will have to do for us. "I expect, I tell you, we shall have to be pretty spry this time. If they are coming down in force, they are sure to send a lot of their Indians through the woods on each side of the lake, and the water will be swarming with their canoes. Jonathan and I have been talking it over, and trying to settle which would be the safest, to foot it all the way, or to go by water. We concluded, as there ain't much difference, and the canoe will be the quickest and easiest, so we had best keep to that plan." "I would certainly rather go that way, Nat, if you think that the danger is no greater." "No, I don't think there's much difference, captain. At any rate, we may as well go that way. Like enough, we shall have to tramp back by the woods." Half an hour later, the canoe put out. Although they had little fear that any of the Indian canoes would be so far up Lake George, there was scarce a word spoken in the boat for some hours after starting. Jonathan was always silent, and Nat, although talkative enough when in camp, was a man of few words when once embarked upon a serious expedition. As for James, he had little inclination for conversation. The enterprise was, he knew, one of extreme danger. Had it been only a French force he was about to reconnoitre, or even one composed of French and Canadians together, he would have thought little of it; but he knew that the redskins would be roaming thickly in the forest, ahead of the army, and, much as he relied upon the skill and experience of the two scouts, he knew it would be difficult, indeed, to elude their watchful eyes. He thought of the letters he had been writing, and wondered whether he should return to tear them up, or whether they would be read at home. All the time he was thinking, he worked his paddle vigorously, and at a high rate of speed. The light canoe bounded noiselessly over the water, impelled by three vigorous pairs of arms. When they approached the narrows connecting Lake George with Lake Champlain, the boat's head was directed towards the shore, for they could not get past Ticonderoga before daylight broke; and it was likely that a good watch would be kept, in the narrows, by the enemy; and it would be dangerous to try to effect a landing there. The canoe was carried ashore, and hidden in some bushes, and all lay down to sleep. When day broke, Nat rose and went down to the water to see that, in landing, they had left no mark upon the shore, which might betray them to the eye of a passing redskin. Going down on his hands and knees, he obliterated every sign of their footprints, raised the herbage upon which they had trodden, cut short to the ground such stalks as they had bruised or broken in their passage, and then, when confident that all was safe, he returned to his camp. When it again became dark, the canoe was carried down and replaced in the water, and they continued their passage. James had, at Nat's request, laid by his paddle. "You paddle wonderfully well, captain. I don't say you don't; but for a delicate piece of work like this, one can't be too careful. It ain't often I can hear your paddle dip in the water, not once in a hundred times, but then, you see, that once might cost us our scalps. We have got to go along as silent as a duck swimming. Speed ain't no object, for we shall be miles down Lake Champlain before daylight; but, if the French know their business, they will have half a dozen canoes in these narrows, to prevent us scouting on Lake Champlain; and, you see, they have got all the advantage of us, 'cause they've got just to lie quiet and listen, and we have got to row on. As far as seeing goes, I can make them out as soon as they can make us out; but they can hear us, while they won't give our ears a chance. "I tell you, captain, I don't expect to get through this narrows without a chase for it. If it come to running, of course you will take your paddle again, and we three can show our heels to any canoe on the lakes, perviding of course as it's only a starn chase. If there are three or four of them, then I don't say as it won't be a close thing." James accordingly lay quietly back in the boat, while his companions took the paddles. It was not necessary for him either to look out, or to listen, for he knew that his companions' eyes and ears were quicker than his own. It had been agreed, before starting, that they should go along close to the trees, on the left-hand side of the passage, because the keenest lookout would be kept on the right-hand side, as that would naturally be chosen by any boat going up, as being farthest from the French fort. "There is no fear, whatever, of our being seen from the land," Nat had said. "The redskins would know that so well that they wouldn't trouble to look out. It's only canoes we have got to be afraid of, and, as to them, it's just a chance. They might see us out in the light waters, in the middle; but, under the trees, they can't make us out thirty yards off. They will be lying there, quiet, if they are there at all, and we shall either get past them safe, or we shall pretty nigh run into them. It's just chance, and there's nothing to do for it but to paddle as noiselessly as fish, and trust to our luck." Having crossed the lake to the left shore, they entered the narrows. The paddles were dipped so quietly into the water, that even James could scarcely hear their sound. Every few strokes the scouts stopped paddling altogether, and sat listening intently. They were keeping close to the trees, so close that, at times, it seemed to James that, by stretching out his hands, he could touch the bushes. After an hour's paddling they stopped longer than usual. "What is it?" James whispered in Jonathan's ear, for Nat had taken the bow paddle. "There are men ahead," the scout whispered back. "We heard them speak just now." Presently the boat began to move again, but so quietly, that it was only by looking at the dark masses of the boughs, that stretched out overhead, that James knew the boat was in motion. Jonathan now crouched in the bottom of the boat, and placed his hand on Nat's shoulder as a sign for him to do the same. The time seemed endless to James, as he lay there. It was too dark, under the trees, for him even to see the outline of Nat's figure. The boat was, he was sure, moving; for occasionally, as he lay on his back, it grew lighter overhead, as they passed under openings in the trees. Suddenly his heart gave a bound, and he nearly started, for a guttural voice spoke, seemingly within a few feet of the canoe. He placed his hand on his rifle, in readiness to sit up and fire, but all was still again. It was a passing remark, made by one redskin to another; in a canoe, for the sound was to his right. Another long period passed, and then Jonathan sat up and took to his paddle again, and James judged that the danger was over. Raising his head, he could see nothing except the vague light of the sheet of water on his right. The boat was still keeping close under the trees, on the left shore of the lake, and he lay back again, and dozed off to sleep. He was awoke by Jonathan touching his foot. "You can take your paddle now, captain." He sat up at once, and looked round. They were far out now, on a broad sheet of water. There were some faint lights, as of fires burning low, high up to the left behind them; and he knew that they had already passed Ticonderoga, and were making their way along Lake Champlain. They paddled for some hours, and then landed on the right-hand side of the lake. "We are not likely to be disturbed here," Nat said, as they lifted the canoe from the water. "The Indians, coming down from Crown Point, would keep on the other side of the lake. They will all make for Ticonderoga, and will not think of keeping a lookout for anyone, as far down the lakes as this." "That was a close shave with that canoe, Nat. It startled me, when I heard the voice close to us. They must have been within ten yards of us." "About that," Nat said. "It was lucky they spoke when we were coming along. I expect they had been watching for some nights, and hadn't much idea anyone would come, or else they wouldn't have spoken. As it was, it was easy enough to pass them, on such a dark night. Of course, they were looking outside, and I just kept along as close as I could to the bushes, only just giving a light stroke, now and then, to take her along. Being inside them, I got a sight of 'em some distance away, but I knew they couldn't see us, sharp as their eyes are. The only chance was their hearing, and, as there was no noise for them to hear, I felt safe enough after I had once caught sight of 'em, and saw they were lying out at the edge of the shadow. "If they had been close under the bushes, as they ought to have been, we should have been in for a fight; for we mightn't have seen each other till the boats touched. Let that be a lesson to you, captain. When you are on the lookout for a canoe, at night, lie in among the bushes. It must pass between you and the light, then, and as they can't see you, you can either grapple or shoot, just as you like. "If they had a seen us, we should have had a hot time, for I could hear by their calls, right along the other side, that they were looking out for us in earnest, and, if a rifle had been fired, we should have had half a dozen canoes down upon us in no time; and, like enough, should have had to leave the boat, and take to the woods." "How far is Crown Point away?" "Not more than ten miles," Nat said. "It is thirty miles from Ticonderoga. It lies out on a point, just where Champlain widens out. I reckon our safest way, tonight, will be to scout along this side, till we are well past the point; then to paddle out well across the lake, and come up again, and land to the left of Crown Point. We shall then be in the track of boats coming up from the lower end of the lake, and can paddle boldly on. No one would be keeping any lookout that way. Our danger won't begin until we get ashore; in course, then we must act according to sarcumstances." This manoeuvre was carried out. They started as soon as it became dark, and, after paddling along the eastern shore for nearly three hours, struck out into the wide lake till they approached the opposite shore, and then, heading south again, paddled boldly down towards the spot where, at the end of a sweep of land, which seemed to close in the lake, stood the French fort of Crown Point. Before starting, the two scouts had stripped to the waist, had laid aside their caps, and, fastening a strip of leather round their heads, had stuck some feathers into it. They then painted their faces and bodies. "You needn't be particular about the flourishes, Jonathan. It's only the redskin outline as one wants to get. If we run against any other canoes coming up the lake, or they get sight of us as we near the shore; so as we look something like redskins, that's near enough. Of course, we can both speak Mohawk well enough to pass muster, and the captain will lay himself down in the bottom. "Captain, you will do well enough for a Canadian when we have once landed. There ain't much difference between a hunter one side of the frontier and the other, but it's as well that you shouldn't be seen till we land. The less questions asked, the better. Our Mohawk's good enough with any of the other tribes, but it wouldn't pass with a Mohawk, if we got into a long talk with him." Fortunately, however, these precautions proved unnecessary. No other canoes were seen on the lake, and they landed, unnoticed, at a spot a mile and a half to the west of Crown Point. Before starting from Fort William Henry, James had laid aside his uniform, and had dressed himself in hunting shirt and leggings, similar to those worn by the scouts. He had adopted various little details, in which the Canadian hunters differed from those on the English side of the frontier. The latter wore their hunting shirts loose in Indian fashion, while the Canadians generally wore a leathern belt outside theirs, at the waist. His cap was made of squirrels' skins, which would pass equally well on both sides of the frontier. The fire bag, in which tobacco, tinder, and other small matters were carried, was of Indian workmanship, as was the cord of his powder horn and bullet pouch. Altogether, his get-up was somewhat brighter and more picturesque than that of English scouts, who, as a rule, despised anything approaching to ornament. He knew that by disguising himself he would be liable, if captured, to be shot at once as a spy; but this could not be considered, under the circumstances, to add to the risk he ran, for, in any case, he was certain to be killed if detected, and it would have been out of the question to attempt to approach the French camp in the uniform of a British officer. Could he have spoken Canadian French, the mission would have been comparatively easy, but he knew only a few words of the language, and would be detected the instant he opened his lips. The canoe was hauled up and carefully concealed on land, and then they lay down until daylight; for no information, as to the strength of the enemy, could be gained in the dark. In the morning, the two scouts very carefully made their toilet. They had brought all necessaries with them; and soon, in their Indian hunting shirts and fringed leggings, and with carefully-painted faces, they were in a position to defy the keenest scrutiny. When, after a careful survey of each other, they felt that their disguise was complete, they moved boldly forward, accompanied by James. After half an hour's walking they emerged from the forest, and the strong fort of Crown Point lay before them. It was constructed of stone, and was capable of withstanding a long siege, by any force which could be brought against it. Round it was the camp of the French troops, and James judged, from the number of tents, that there must be some 1500 French soldiers there. A short distance away were a large number of roughly-constructed huts, roofed with boughs of trees. "Them's the Canadians," Jonathan said. "The redskins never build shelters while on the war path. There are a heap of redskins about." These, indeed, even at the distance of several hundred yards, could be easily distinguished from their white allies, by their plumed headdresses, and by the blankets or long robes of skins which hung from their shoulders. "I should put them down at three thousand." "It is a big army," Nat said. "I should think there must be quite as many Canadians as French. How many redskins there are, there ain't no knowing, but we may be sure that they will have got together as many as they could. Put 'em down at 4000, and that makes 7000 altogether, enough to eat up Fort William Henry, and to march to Albany--or to New York, if they are well led and take fancy to it--that is, if the colonists don't bestir themselves smartly. "Well, so far you have found out what you came to seek, captain. What's the next thing?" "We must discover, if we can, whether they mean to go up the lakes in boats, or to march through the woods," James replied. "They will have a tremendous job getting any guns through the woods, but, if they are going by water, of course they can bring them." "Very well," Nat replied. "In that case, captain, my advice is, you stop in the woods, and Jonathan and I will go down past the fort to the shore, and see what provision they are making in that way. You see, the place swarms with Canadians, and you would be sure to be spoken to. Redskins don't talk much to each other, unless there is some need for words, and we can go right through the French camp without fear. The only danger is of some loping Mohawk coming up to us, and I don't reckon there are many of 'em in the camp, perhaps nary a one." Although James did not like his followers to go into danger, without his sharing it, he saw that his presence would enormously add to their risks, and therefore agreed to their plan. Withdrawing some distance into the wood, and choosing a thick growth of underwood, he entered, and lay down in the bushes, while the two scouts walked quietly away towards the camp. Two hours passed. Several times he heard footsteps in the wood near him, and, peering through the leaves, caught sight of parties of Indians going towards the camp, either late arrivals from Montreal, or bands that had been out scouting or hunting. At the end of the two hours, to his great relief, he saw two figures coming from the other way through the woods, and at once recognized the scouts. He crawled out and joined them, as they came up. "Thank God you are back again! I have been in a fever, all the time you have been away." "I wish I had known the precise place where you were hiding. I should have made a sign to you to keep quiet; but it ain't of no use, now." "What's the matter then, Nat?" "I ain't quite sure as anything is the matter," the scout replied; "but I am feared of it. As bad luck would have it, just as we were coming back through the camp, we came upon a Mohawk chief. He looked hard at us, and then came up and said: "'The Owl thought that he knew all his brothers; but here are two whose faces are strange to him.' "Of course, I told him that we had been living and hunting, for years, in the English colony, but that, hearing that the Mohawks had joined the French, we had come to fight beside our brothers. He asked a few questions, and then passed on. But I could see the varmin was not satisfied, though, in course, he pretended to be glad to welcome us back to the tribe. So we hung about the camp for another half hour, and then made a sweep before we came out here. I didn't look round, but Jonathan stooped, as if the lace of his moccasin had come undone, and managed to look back, but, in course, he didn't see anything." "Then you have no reason to believe you are followed, Nat?" "Don't I tell you I have every reason?" Nat said. "If that redskin, the Owl, has got any suspicion--and suspicion you may be sure he's got--he won't rest till he's cleared the matter up. He is after us, sure enough." "Then had we not better make for the canoe at full speed?" "No," Nat said. "If they are behind us, they will be watching our trail; and if they see we change our pace, they will be after us like a pack of wolves; while, as long as we walk slowly and carelessly, they will let us go. If it were dark, we might make a run for it, but there ain't no chance at present. If we took to the lake, we should have a hundred canoes after us, while the woods are full of Indians, and a whoop of the Owl would bring a hundred of them down onto our track." "Why shouldn't the Owl have denounced you at once, if he suspected you?" James asked. "Because it ain't redskin nature to do anything, till you are sure," the scout replied. "There is nothing a redskin hates so much as to be wrong, and he would rather wait, for weeks, to make sure of a thing, than run the risk of making a mistake. I don't suppose he takes us for whites. He expects we belong to some other tribe, come in as spies." "Then what are you thinking of doing?" James asked. "We will go on a bit further," Nat said, "in hopes of coming across some stream, where we may hide our trail. If we can't find that, we will sit down, before long, and eat as if we was careless and in no hurry." For a time, they walked on in silence. "Do you think they are close to us?" James asked, presently. "Not far away," the scout said carelessly. "So long as they see we ain't hurrying, they will go easy. They will know, by this time, that we have a white man with us, and, like enough, the Owl will have sent back for one or two more of his warriors. Likely enough, he only took one with him, at first, seeing we were but two, and that he reckoned on taking us by surprise; but, when he saw you joined us, he would send back for perhaps a couple more." "Then what I would suggest," James said, "is, that we should at once stroll down to our canoe, put it in the water, and paddle out a few hundred yards, and there let down the lines we have got on board, and begin to fish. As long as we are quiet there, the redskins may not interfere with us, and, when it gets dark, we can make off. At the worst, we have a chance for it, and it seems to me anything would be better than this sort of wandering about, when we know that, at any time, we may have them down upon us." "Perhaps that is the best plan," Nat said. "What do you think, Jonathan?" Jonathan gave an assenting grunt, and they turned their faces towards the lake, still walking at the same leisurely pace. Not once did any of the three look back. As they neared the water, James found the temptation very strong to do so, but he restrained it, and sauntered along as carelessly as ever. The canoe was lifted from its hiding place and put in the water. As they were about to step in, the bushes parted, and the Owl stood beside them. "Where are my brothers going?" he asked quietly. "We are going fishing," Nat answered. "The noise in the woods will have frightened game away." "There is food in the camp," the Owl said. "The French give food to their brothers, the redskins." "My white brother wants fish," Nat said quietly, "and we have told him we will catch him some. Will the Owl go with us?" The Indian shook his head, and in a moment the canoe put off from the shore, the Indian standing, watching them, at the edge of the water. "That's a badly puzzled redskin," Nat said, with a low laugh. "His braves have not come up yet, or he would not have let us start. "There, that is far enough. We are out of the range of Indian guns. Now, lay in your paddles, and begin to fish. There are several canoes fishing further out, and the redskin will feel safe. He can cut us off, providing we don't go beyond them." The Indian was, as Nat had said, puzzled. That something was wrong he was sure; but, as he was alone, he was unable to oppose their departure. He watched them closely, as they paddled out, in readiness to give a war whoop, which would have brought down the fishing canoes outside, and given warning to every Indian within sound of his voice; but, when he saw them stop and begin to fish, he hesitated. If he gave the alarm, he might prove to be mistaken, and he shrank from facing the ridicule which a false alarm would bring upon him. Should they really prove, as he believed, to be spies, he would, if he gave the alarm, lose the honour and glory of their capture, and their scalps would fall to other hands--a risk not to be thought of. He therefore waited, until six of his braves came up. He had already retired among the trees, before he joined them; but the canoe was still visible through the branches. "The men we tracked have taken to the water. They are fishing. The Owl is sure that they are not of our tribe; but he must wait, till he sees what they will do. Let three of my brothers go and get a canoe, and paddle out beyond them, and there fish. I will remain with the others here. If they come back again, we will seize them. If they go out further, my brothers will call to the redskins in the other canoes, and will cut them off. The Owl and his friends will soon be with them." "There is another canoe coming out, Nat," James said. "Hadn't we better make a run for it, at once?" "Not a bit of it, captain. Dear me, how difficult it is to teach men to have patience! I have looked upon you as a promising pupil; but there you are, just as hasty and impatient as if you had never spent a day in the woods. Where should we run to? We must go up the lake, for we could not pass the point, for fifty canoes would be put out before we got there. We couldn't land this side, because the woods are full of redskins; and if we led them for ten miles down the lake, and landed t'other side, scores of them would land between here and there, and would cut us off. "No, lad; we have got to wait here till it's getting late. I don't say till it's dark, but till within an hour or so of nightfall. As long as we show no signs of going, the chances is as they won't interfere with us. It's a part of redskin natur to be patient, and, as long as they see as we don't try to make off, they will leave us alone. That's how I reads it. "You agrees with me, Jonathan? "In course, you do," he went on, as his companion grunted an assent. "I don't say as they mayn't ask a question or so; but I don't believe as they will interfere with us. "There is a fish on your line, captain. You don't seem, to me, to be attending to your business." James, indeed, found it difficult to fix his attention on his line, when he knew that they were watched by hostile eyes, and that, at any moment, a conflict might begin. The canoe that had come out last had shaped its course so as to pass close to those fishing outside them, and a few words had been exchanged with the occupants of each--a warning, no doubt, as to the suspicious character of the fishing party near them. Beyond this, nothing had happened. The Indians in the canoe had let down their lines, and seemed as intent as the others upon their fishing. The hours passed slowly. Under other circumstances, James would have enjoyed the sport, for the fish bit freely, and a considerable number were soon lying in the canoe. Nat and Jonathan appeared as interested in their work as if no other boat, but their own, were afloat on the lake. Never once did James see them glance towards the canoes. They did not talk much, but when they spoke, it was always in the Indian tongue. The time seemed endless, before the sun began to sink beyond the low hills on their left. It was an intense relief, to James, when Nat said at last: "The time is just at hand now, cap. The redskins are tired of waiting. At least, they think that they had better not put it off any longer. They know, as well as we do, that it won't do to wait till it gets dark. "Do you see that canoe, that came out last, is paddling down towards us? It looks as if it were drifting, but I have seen them dip a paddle in, several times. The others are pulling up their lines, so as to be in readiness to join in. Get your piece ready to pick up, and aim the moment I give the word. They think they are going to surprise us, but we must be first with them. Go on with your fishing, and just drop your line overboard, when you pick up your gun." The canoe approached slowly, until it was within thirty yards. James and his companions went on with their fishing, as if they did not notice the approach of the other canoe, until one of the Indians spoke. "Have my Indian brothers caught many fish?" "A goodish few," Nat replied. "One or two of them are large ones. "See here," and he stooped as if to select a large fish. "Now," he said suddenly. In an instant, the three rifles were levelled to the shoulder, and pointed at the Indians. The latter, taken completely by surprise, and finding themselves with three barrels levelled at them, as by one accord dived overboard. "Now your paddles," Nat exclaimed. Three strokes sent the canoe dancing up to that which the Indians had just left. It struck it on the broadside, and rolled it instantly over. "Those redskin guns are out of the way, anyhow," Nat said. "Now we have got to row for it." He gave a sharp turn to the canoe as he spoke, and it bounded away towards the right, thereby throwing those outside it on their quarter. Simultaneously with the upset of the canoe, half a dozen rifles rang out from the shore, an Indian war whoop rose at the edge of the woods, and, a minute later, half a dozen canoes shot out from shore.	{ "id": "17766" }
15	: Through Many Perils.	The course Nat was taking was not parallel to that of the boats outside him. He was sheering gradually out into the lake, and, although the boat was travelling somewhat faster than its pursuers, James saw that its course would carry it across their bows at a dangerously close distance. The Indians were not long in seeing that the canoe was outstripping them, and in each of the boats one of the redskins laid aside his paddle, and began to fire. The balls struck the water near the canoe, but no one was hit. "Let them fire," Jonathan said. "It ain't every man as can shoot straight from a canoe going at racing pace. The more they fires the better. They will only fall further behind." After firing two or three shots each, the Indians appeared to be of the same opinion, and resumed their paddles; but they had lost so much ground that the canoe they were in chase of shot out into the lake fifty yards ahead of the nearest. Some more shots were fired, and then the Indians began hastily to throw the fish, with which their canoes were laden, into the water. After paddling two or three hundred yards farther, Nat laid in his paddle. "Out with them fish," he said. "You can leave one or two for supper, but the rest must go overboard. Be quick about it, for those canoes from the shore are coming up fast." The work was concluded just as the canoes with the Owl and his warriors came up with the others, which, having now got rid of their fish, again set out, and, in a close body, the ten canoes started in pursuit. "Paddle steady," Nat said; "and whatever you do, be keerful of your blades. If one was to break now it would mean the loss of our scalps. Don't gain on 'em; as long as the redskins on shore think as their friends are going to catch us, they won't care to put out and join in the chase; but if they thought we was getting away, they might launch canoes ahead of us and cut us off. The nearer we are to them the better, as long as we are keeping ahead." For an hour the chase continued. The Indians, although straining every nerve, did not gain a foot upon the fugitives, who, although paddling hard, had still some reserve of strength. The sun, by this time, was touching the tops of the hills. "Now, cap," Nat said, "it's time to teach 'em as we can bite a bit. They won't be quite so hot over it, if we give them a lesson now. Do you turn round and pepper them a bit. "Now, old hoss! You and I must row all we know for a bit." Turning himself in the canoe, resting his elbow on his knee to steady his rifle, James took as careful an aim as the dancing motion of the boat permitted, and fired. A dull sound came back, like an echo, to the crack of the piece, and a paddle in the leading boat fell into the water. A yell arose from the Indians, but no answering shout came back. The Indians were now paddling even harder than before, in hope of overtaking the canoe, now that it was impelled by but two rowers. But the scouts were rowing their hardest, and proved the justice of their fame, as the best paddlers on the lakes, by maintaining their distance from their pursuers. Again and again James fired, several of his bullets taking effect. It was now rapidly becoming dusk. "That will do, captain. We had best be showing them our heels now, and get as far ahead as we can, by the time it is quite dark." James laid by his rifle and again took his paddle, and, as all were rowing at the top of their speed, they gradually increased the distance between themselves and their pursuers. Rapidly the gap of water widened, and when darkness fell on the lake, the fugitives were more than half a mile ahead of their pursuers. The night was dark, and a light mist rising from the water further aided them. When night had set in, the pursuing canoes could no longer be seen. For another half hour they paddled on, without intermitting their efforts, then, to James's surprise, Nat turned the head of the canoe to the western shore. He asked no question, however, having perfect faith in Nat's sagacity. They were nearly in the middle of the lake when they altered their course, and it took them half an hour's hard paddling, before the dark mass of trees loomed up in the darkness ahead of him. Ten minutes before, Nat had passed the word that they should paddle quietly and noiselessly. It was certain that the chase would be eagerly watched from the shore, and that any Indians there might be in the wood would be closely watching near the water's edge. Accordingly, as noiselessly as possible they approached the shore, and, gliding in between the overhanging trees, laid the canoe alongside a clump of bushes. Then, without a word being spoken, they laid in their paddles and stretched themselves full length in the canoe. James was glad of the rest, for, trained and hard as were his muscles, he was exhausted by the long strain of the row for life. He guessed that Nat would calculate that the Indian canoes would scatter, when they lost sight of them, and that they would seek for them more closely on the eastern shore. At the same time he was surprised that, after once getting out of sight of their pursuers, Nat had not immediately landed on the opposite shore, and started on foot through the woods. After recovering his breath, James sat up and listened attentively. Once or twice he thought he heard the sound of a dip of a paddle, out on the lake, but he could not be sure of it; while from time to time he heard the croak of a frog, sometimes near, sometimes at a distance along the shore. He would have thought little of this, had not a slight pressure of Jonathan's hand, against his foot, told him that these were Indian signals. Some hours passed before Nat made a move, then he touched Jonathan, and sat up in the canoe. The signal was passed on to James, the paddles were noiselessly taken up, and, without a sound that could be detected by the most closely-listening ear, the canoe stole out again on to the lake. Until some distance from shore they paddled very quietly, then gradually the strokes grew more vigorous, until the canoe was flying along at full speed up the lake, her course being laid so as to cross very gradually towards the eastern side. It was not until, as James judged, they must have been several miles from the point at which they had started, that they approached the eastern shore. They did so with the same precautions which had been adopted on the other side, and sat, listening intently, before they gave the last few strokes which took them to the shore. Quietly they stepped out, and the two scouts, lifting the canoe on their shoulders, carried it some fifty yards into the forest, and laid it down among some bushes. Then they proceeded on their way, Nat walking first, James following him so close that he was able to touch him, for, in the thick darkness under the trees, he could not perceive even the outlines of his figure. Jonathan followed close behind. Their progress was slow, for even the trained woodsmen could, with difficulty, make their way through the trees, and Nat's only index, as to the direction to be taken, lay in the feel of the bark of the trunks. After an hour's progress, he whispered: "We will stop here till daylight. We can't do any good at the work. We haven't made half a mile since we started." It was a positive relief, to James, to hear the scout's voice, for not a single word had been spoken since they lost sight of their pursuers in the darkness. The fact that he had ventured now to speak showed that he believed that they were comparatively safe. "May I speak, Nat?" he asked, after they had seated themselves on the ground. "Ay, you may speak, captain, but don't you raise your voice above a whisper. There is no saying what redskin ears may be near us. I guess these forests are pretty well alive with them. You may bet there isn't a redskin, or one of the irregular Canadian bands, but is out arter us tonight. The war whoop and the rifles will have put them all on the lookout. "They will have seen that we were pretty well holding our own, and will guess that, when night came on, we should give the canoes the slip. I guess they will have placed a lot of canoes and flatboats across the lake, opposite Crown Point, for they will know that we should either head back, or take to the woods. I guess most of the redskins near Crown Point will have crossed over at this point, as, in course, we were more likely to land on this side. I had a mighty good mind to land whar we was over there, but there are sure to be such a heap of Indians, making their way up that side from Montreal, that I judge this will be the best; but we shall have all we can do to get free of them." "Why didn't you land at once, Nat, after we lost sight of them, instead of crossing over?" "Because that's where they will reckon we shall land, captain. That's where they will look for our tracks the first thing in the morning, and they will know that we can't travel far such a dark night as this, and they will search every inch of the shore for three or four miles below where they lost sight of us, to find where we landed. They would know well enough we couldn't get ashore, without leaving tracks as they would make out, and they would reckon to pick up our trail fast enough, in the wood, and to overtake us before we had gone many miles. "Now, you see, we have doubled on them. The varmint in the woods will search the edge of the lake in the morning, but it's a good long stretch to go over, and, if we have luck, they mayn't strike on our landing place for some hours after daylight. In course, they may hit on it earlier; still, it gives us a chance, anyhow. Another thing is, we have twenty miles less to travel through the woods than if we had to start up there, and that makes all the difference when you've got redskins at your heels. If we don't have the bad luck to come across some of the varmint in the woods, I expect we shall carry our scalps back to Fort William Henry. "Now you had best sleep till daybreak. We sha'n't get another chance till we get into the fort again." With the first dawn of morning, they were on their way. Striking straight back into the woods, they walked fast, but with the greatest care and caution, occasionally making bends and detours, to prevent the redskins following their traces at a run, which they would have been able to do, had they walked in a straight line. Whenever the ground was soft, they walked without trying to conceal their tracks, for Nat knew that, however carefully they progressed, the Indians would be able to make out their trail here. When, however, they came to rocky and broken ground, they walked with the greatest caution, avoiding bruising any of the plants growing between the rocks. After walking ten miles in this direction, they turned to the south. "We ought to be pretty safe, now," Nat said. "They may be three or four hours before they hit on our landing place, and find the canoe. I don't say as they won't be able to follow our trail--there ain't no saying what redskin eyes can do--but it 'ull take them a long time, anyway. There ain't much risk of running against any of them in the forest, now. I guess that most of them followed the canoe down the lake last night. "Anyway, we are well out from Lake Champlain now. When we have gone another fifteen mile, we sha'n't be far from the upper arm. There's a canoe been lying hidden there for the last two years, unless some tramping redskin has found it, which ain't likely." Twenty miles further walking brought them to the shore of the lake. Following this for another hour, they came upon the spot, where a little stream ran into the lake. "Here we are," Nat said. "Fifty yards up here we shall find the canoe." They followed the stream up for a little distance, and then Nat, leaving its edge, made for a clump of bushes a few yards away. Pushing the thick foliage aside, he made his way into the centre of the clump. "Here it is," he said, "just as I left it." The canoe was lifted out and carried down to the lake, and, taking their seats, they paddled up Lake Champlain, keeping close under the shore. "We have had good luck, captain," Nat said. "I hardly thought we should har got out without a scrimmage. I expect as the best part of the redskins didn't trouble themselves very much about it. They expect to get such a lot of scalps and plunder, when they take the fort, that the chance of three extra wasn't enough inducement for 'em to take much trouble over it. The redskins in the canoes, who chased us, would be hot enough over it, for you picked out two if not more of them; but those who started from the fort wouldn't have any particular reason to trouble much, especially as they think it likely that those who were chasing us would get the scalps. When a redskin's blood's up there ain't no trouble too great for him, and he will follow for weeks to get his revenge; but, take 'em all in all, they are lazy varmint, and as long as there is plenty of deer's meat on hand, they will eat and sleep away their time for weeks." By night, they reached the upper end of Lake Champlain, the canoe was carefully hidden away again, and they struck through the woods in the direction of Fort William Henry. They were now safe from pursuit, and, after walking two or three miles, halted for the night, made a fire, and cooked some of the dried meat. When they had finished their meal, Nat said: "Now we will move away a bit, and then stretch ourselves out." "Why shouldn't we lie down here, Nat?" "Because it would be a foolish thing to do, captain. There ain't no saying what redskins may be wandering in the woods in time of war. A thousand nights might pass without one of 'em happening to come upon that fire, but if they did, and we were lying beside it, all the trouble we have taken to slip through their hands would be chucked clean away. No, you cannot be too careful in the woods." They started early the next morning, and, before noon, arrived at Fort William Henry, where James at once reported, to Colonel Monro, what he had learned of the strength of the French force gathering at Crown Point. "Thank you, Captain Walsham," the commandant said. "I am greatly indebted to you, for having brought us certain news of what is coming. I will write off at once, and ask for reinforcements. This is a serious expedition, and the colonies will have to make a great effort, and a speedy one, if they are going to save the fort, for, from what we hear of Montcalm, he is not likely to let the grass grow under his feet. I shall report the services you have rendered." As soon as Colonel Monro received the report James had brought him, he sent to General Webb, who, with two thousand six hundred men, chiefly provincials, was at Fort Edward, fourteen miles away. On the 25th of July that general visited Fort William Henry, and, after remaining there four days, returned to Fort Edward, whence he wrote to the governor of New York, telling him the French were coming, and urging him to send forward the militia at once, saying that he was determined to march himself, with all his troops, to the fort. Instead of doing so, three days later he sent up a detachment of two hundred regulars under Lieutenant Colonel Young, and eight hundred Massachusetts men under Colonel Frye. This raised the force at Fort William Henry to two thousand two hundred men, and reduced that of Webb to sixteen hundred. Had Webb been a brave and determined man, he would have left a few hundred men, only, to hold Fort Edward, and marched with the rest to assist Monro, when, on the morning of the 3d of August, he received a letter from him, saying that the French were in sight on the lake. But, as he was neither brave nor determined, he remained at Fort Edward, sending off message after message to New York, for help which could not possibly arrive in time. Already, the garrison of Fort William Henry had suffered one reverse. Three hundred provincials, chiefly New Jersey men, under Colonel Parker, had been sent out to reconnoitre the French outposts. The scouts, under James Walsham, were of the party. They were to proceed in boats down the lake. "I don't like this business, no way, captain," Nat said, as the company took their place in the boats. "This ain't neither one thing or the other. If Monro wants to find out about the enemy, Jonathan and I kin do it. If he wants to fight the enemy, this lot ain't enough; besides, these New Jersey men know no more about the forest than so many children. You mark my words, this is going to be a bad business. Why, they can see all these boats halfway down the lake, and, with all these redskins about, they will ambush us as soon as we try to land. "Look here, captain; you know that I ain't no coward. I don't think no one can say that of me. I am ready to fight when there is a chance of fighting, but I don't see no good in getting myself killed off, when there ain't no good in it. So what I says is this: don't you be in a hurry, captain, with these boats of ours." "But I must obey orders, Nat," James said, smiling. "Yes, you must obey orders, captain, no doubt. But there's two ways of obeying orders. The one is to rush in front, and to do a little more than you are told. The other is to take things quiet, and just do what you are told, and no more. Now, my advice is, on this here expedition you go on the last plan. If you are ordered to land first, why land first it must be. If you don't get orders to land first, just let them as is in a hurry land afore you. I ain't been teaching all these lads to know something about the woods, for the last six months, jest to see them killed off like flies, because a blundering wrong-headed colonel sends them out with two hundred and fifty ploughmen, for the redskins to see and attack jest when they fancies." "Very well, Nat, I will take your advice, and, for once, we won't put ourselves in the front, unless we are ordered." Satisfied with this, Nat passed quietly round among the men, as they were taking their places in the boats, and told them that there was no occasion for them to row as if they were racing. "I shall be in the captain's boat," he said. "You keep close to us, and don't you try to push on ahead. When we are once fairly in the woods, then we will do the scouting for the rest, but there ain't no hurry for us to begin that, till we are on shore." "Look at us," Nat grumbled in James's ear, as the boats started down the lake. "There we are, rowing along the middle, instead of sneaking along close to the shore. Does Parker think that the redskins are as blind as he is, and that, 'cause it's night, a lot of big boats like these can't be seen out in the middle of the lake? I tell you, captain, if we ain't ambushed as soon as we land, I will grant I know nothing of redskin ways." James had, in fact, before starting, suggested to Colonel Parker that it would be well to keep under the shelter of the bushes; but the officer had replied stiffly: "When I want your advice, Captain Walsham, I will ask for it." After which rebuff, James was more willing than he had hitherto been to act in accordance with the advice of the scout. Accordingly, as they rowed down the lake, the boats with the Royal Scouts, although keeping up with the others, maintained their position in the rear of the column. Towards daybreak, the boats' heads were turned to shore, and, when they neared it, Colonel Parker gave the order for the men to lay in their oars, while the three boats, which happened to be in advance, were told to advance at once and land. The boats passed through the thick curtain of trees, which hung down over the water's edge. A minute passed, and then three others were ordered to follow them. "Did you hear nothing?" Nat whispered to James. "No, I didn't hear anything, Nat. Did you?" "Well, I think I did hear something, captain. It seems to me as I heard a sort of scuffle." "But they never could surprise some thirty or forty men, without the alarm being given?" "It depended what sort of men they were," Nat said scornfully. "They wouldn't surprise men that knew their business; but those chaps would just jump out of their boats, as if they was landed on a quay at New York, and would scatter about among the bushes. Why, Lord bless you, the Indians might ambush and tomahawk the lot, before they had time to think of opening their lips to give a shout." The second three boats had now disappeared among the trees, and Colonel Parker gave the word for the rest to advance in a body. "Look to your firelocks, lads," James said. "Whatever happens, keep perfectly cool. You at the oars, especially, sit still and be ready to obey orders." The boats were within fifty yards of the trees when, from beneath the drooping boughs, a volley of musketry was poured out, and, a moment later, a swarm of canoes darted out from beneath the branches, and the terrible Indian war whoop rang in the air. Appalled by the suddenness of the attack, by the deadly fire, and the terrible yells, the greater portion of the men in the boats were seized with the wildest panic. Many of them jumped into the water. Others threw themselves down in the bottom of the boats. Some tried to row, but were impeded by their comrades. "Steady, men, steady!" James shouted, at the top of his voice. "Get the boats' heads round, and keep together. We can beat off these canoes, easy enough, if you do but keep your heads." His orders were obeyed promptly and coolly by the men of his company. The boats were turned with their heads to the lake, as the canoes came dashing up, and the men who were not employed in rowing fired so steadily and truly that the redskins in several of the leading canoes fell, upsetting their boats. "Don't hurry," James shouted. "There is no occasion for haste. They can go faster than we can. All we have got to do is to beat them off. Lay in all the oars, except the two bow oars, in each boat. All the rest of the men stand to their arms, and let the boats follow each other in file, the bow of one close to the stern of that ahead." The check, which the volley had given to the canoes, gave time to the men in several of the boats, close to those of the scouts, to turn. They were rowing past James's slowly-moving boats, when he shouted to them: "Steady, men, your only chance of escape is to show a front to them, as we are doing. They can overtake you easily, and will row you down one after the other. Fall in ahead of our line, and do as we are doing. You need not be afraid. We could beat them off, if they were ten times as many." Reassured by the calmness with which James issued his orders, the boats took up the positions assigned to them. James, who was in the last boat in the line, shuddered at the din going on behind him. The yells of the Indians, the screams and cries of the provincials, mingled with the sharp crack of rifles or the duller sound of the musket. The work of destruction was soon over. Save his own company and some fifty of the provincials in the boats ahead, the whole of Colonel Parker's force had been killed, or were prisoners in the hands of the Indians, who, having finished their work, set off in pursuit of the boats which had escaped them. James at once changed the order. The front boat was halted, and the others formed in a line beside it, presenting the broad side to the approaching fleet of canoes. When the latter came within a hundred yards, a stream of fire opened from the boats, the men aiming with the greatest coolness. The canoes were checked at once. A score of the paddlers had sunk, killed or wounded, into the bottom, and several of the frail barks were upset. As fast as the men could load, they continued their fire, and, in two minutes from the first shot, the canoes were turned, and paddled at full speed towards the shore, pursued by a hearty cheer from the English. The oars were then manned again, and the remains of Parker's flotilla rowed up the lake to Fort William Henry. Several of the prisoners taken by the Indians were cooked and eaten by them. A few days afterwards a party of Indians, following the route from the head of Lake Champlain, made a sudden attack on the houses round Fort Edward, and killed thirty-two men. It was an imposing spectacle, as the French expedition made its way down Lake George. General Levis had marched by the side of the lake with twenty-five hundred men, Canadians, regulars, and redskins; while the main body proceeded, the troops in two hundred and fifty large boats, the redskins in many hundreds of their canoes. The boats moved in military order. There were six regiments of French line: La Reine and Languedoc, La Sarre and Guienne, Bearn and Roussillon. The cannons were carried on platforms formed across two boats. Slowly and regularly the procession of boats made its way down the lake, till they saw the signal fires of Levis, who, with his command, was encamped near the water at a distance of two miles from the fort. Even then, the English were not aware that near eight thousand enemies were gathered close to them. Monro was a brave soldier, but wholly unfitted for the position he held, knowing nothing of irregular warfare, and despising all but trained soldiers. At daybreak, all was bustle at Fort Henry. Parties of men went out to drive in the cattle, others to destroy buildings which would interfere with the fire from the fort. The English position was now more defensible than it had been when it was attacked in the spring. The forest had been cleared for a considerable distance round, and the buildings which had served as a screen to the enemy had, for the most part, been removed. The fort itself lay close down by the edge of the water. One side and the rear were protected by the marsh, so that it could only be attacked from one side. Beyond the marsh lay the rough ground where Johnson had encamped two years before; while, on a flat hill behind this was an entrenched camp, beyond which, again, was another marsh. As soon as the sun rose, the column of Levis moved through the forest towards the fort, followed by Montcalm with the main body, while the artillery boats put out from behind the point which had hid them from the sight of the English, and, surrounded by hundreds of Indian canoes, moved slowly forward, opening fire as they went. Soon the sound of firing broke out near the edge of the forest, all round the fort, as the Indians, with Levis, opened fire upon the soldiers who were endeavouring to drive in the cattle. Hitherto James Walsham, with Edwards and his two scouts, was standing quietly, watching the approaching fleet of boats and canoes; Nat expressing, in no measured terms, his utter disgust at the confusion which reigned in and around the fort. "It looks more like a frontier settlement suddenly surprised," he said, "than a place filled with soldiers who have been, for weeks, expecting an attack. Nothing done, nothing ready. The cattle all over the place. The tents on that open ground there still standing. Stores all about in the open. Of all the pig-headed, obstinate, ignorant old gentlemen I ever see, the colonel beats them all. One might as well have an old woman in command. Indeed, I know scores of old women, on the frontier, who would have been a deal better here than him." But if Monro was obstinate and prejudiced, he was brave, cool, and determined, and, now that the danger had come, he felt secure of his ground, and took the proper measures for defence, moving calmly about, and abating the disposition to panic by the calm manner in which he gave his orders. Nat had scarcely finished his grumbling, when the colonel approached. "Captain Walsham," he said, "you will take your company at once, and cover the parties driving in the cattle. You will fall back with them, and, when you see all in safety, retire into the intrenched camp." The company were already under arms, waiting for orders and, at the double, James led them up the sloping ground towards the forest, whence the war whoops of the Indians, and the sharp cracks of the rifles, were now ringing out on all sides. James made for the spot where a score of soldiers were driving a number of cattle before them, some hurrying the beasts on across the rough ground, others firing at the Indians, who, as their numbers increased, were boldly showing themselves behind the trees, and advancing in pursuit. As soon as they neared the spot, James scattered his men in skirmishing order. Each placed himself behind one of the blackened stumps of the roughly-cleared forest, and opened fire upon the Indians. Several of these fell, and the rest bounded back to the forest, whence they opened a heavy fire. Now the company showed the advantage of the training they had gone through, fighting with the greatest steadiness and coolness, and keeping well in shelter, until, when the soldiers and cattle had got well on their way towards the fort, James gave the order to fall back, and the band, crawling among the stumps, and pausing to fire at every opportunity, made their way back without having lost a man, although several had received slight wounds.	{ "id": "17766" }
16	: The Massacre At Fort William Henry.	When the skirmishing round Fort Henry was over, La Corne, with a body of Indians, occupied the road that led to Fort Edward; and Levis encamped close by, to support him, and check any sortie the English might make from their intrenched camp. Montcalm reconnoitred the position. He had, at first, intended to attack and carry the intrenched camp, but he found that it was too strong to be taken by a rush. He therefore determined to attack the fort, itself, by regular approaches from the western side, while the force of Levis would intercept any succour which might come from Fort Edward, and cut off the retreat of the garrison in that direction. He gave orders that the cannon were to be disembarked at a small cove, about half a mile from the fort, and near this he placed his main camp. He now sent one of his aides-de-camp with a letter to Monro. "I owe it to humanity," he said, "to summon you to surrender. At present I can restrain the savages, and make them observe the terms of a capitulation, but I might not have the power to do so under other circumstances, and an obstinate defence on your part could only retard the capture of the place a few days, and endanger the unfortunate garrison, which cannot be relieved, in consequence of the dispositions I have made. I demand a decisive answer within an hour." Monro replied simply that he and his soldiers would defend themselves till the last. The trenches were opened on the night of the 4th. The work was extremely difficult, the ground being covered with hard stumps of trees and fallen trunks. All night long 800 men toiled at the work, while the guns of the fort kept up a constant fire of round shot and grape; but by daybreak the first parallel was made. The battery on the left was nearly finished, and one on the right begun. The men were now working under shelter, and the guns of the fort could do them little harm. While the French soldiers worked, the Indians crept up through the fallen trees, close to the fort, and fired at any of the garrison who might, for a moment, expose themselves. Sharpshooters in the fort replied to their fire, and all day the fort was fringed with light puffs of smoke, whilst the cannon thundered unceasingly. The next morning, the French battery on the left opened with eight heavy cannon and a mortar, and on the following morning the battery on the right joined in with eleven other pieces. The fort only mounted, in all, seventeen cannon, for the most part small, and, as some of them were upon the other faces, the English fire, although kept up with spirit, could reply but weakly to that of the French. The fort was composed of embankments of gravel, surmounted by a rampart of heavy logs, laid in tiers, crossing each other, the interstices filled with earth; and this could ill support the heavy cannonade to which it was exposed. The roar of the distant artillery continuing day after day was plainly audible at Fort Edward; but although Monro had, at the commencement of the attack, sent off several messengers asking for reinforcements, Webb did not move. On the third day of the siege he had received 2000 men from New York, and, by stripping all the forts below, he could have advanced with 4500 men, but some deserters from the French told him that Montcalm had 12,000 men, and Webb considered the task of advancing, through the intervening forests and defiles between him and Fort Henry, far too dangerous an operation to be attempted. Undoubtedly it would have been a dangerous one, for the Indians pervaded the woods as far as Fort Edward. No messenger could have got through to inform Monro of his coming, and Montcalm could therefore have attacked him, on the march, with the greater part of his force. Still, a brave and determined general would have made the attempt. Webb did not do so, but left Monro to his fate. He even added to its certainty by sending off a letter to him, telling him that he could do nothing to assist him, and advising him to surrender at once. The messenger was killed by the Indians in the forest, and the note taken to Montcalm, who, learning that Webb did not intend to advance, was able to devote his whole attention to the fort. Montcalm kept the letter for several days, till the English rampart was half battered down, and then sent it in by an officer to Monro, hoping that it would induce the latter to surrender. The old soldier, however, remained firm in his determination to hold out, even though his position was now absolutely hopeless. The trenches had been pushed forward until within 250 yards of the fort, and the Indians crept up almost to the wall on this side. Two sorties were made--one from the fort, the other from the intrenched camp; but both were repulsed with loss. More than 300 of the defenders had been killed and wounded. Smallpox was raging, and the casemates were crowded with sick. All their large cannon had been burst or disabled, and only seven small pieces were fit for service. The French battery in the foremost trench was almost completed, and, when this was done, the whole of Montcalm's thirty-one cannon and fifteen mortars would open fire, and, as a breach had already been effected in the wall, further resistance would have been madness. On the night of the 8th, it was known in the fort that a council of war would be held in the morning, and that, undoubtedly, the fort would surrender. James, with his company, had, after escorting the cattle to the fort, crossed the marsh to the intrenched camp, as the fort was already crowded with troops. The company therefore avoided the horrors of the siege. When the report circulated that a surrender would probably be made the next morning, Nat went to James. "What are you going to do, captain?" "Do, Nat? Why, I have nothing to do. If Monro and his council decide to surrender, there is an end of it. You don't propose that our company is to fight Montcalm's army alone, do you?" "No, I don't," Nat said, testily; "there has been a deal too much fighting already. I understand holding out till the last, when there's a hope of somebody coming to relieve you; but what's the use of fighting, and getting a lot of your men killed, and raising the blood of those redskin devils to boiling point? If the colonel had given up the place at once, we should have saved a loss of 300 men, and Montcalm would have been glad enough to let us march off to Fort Edward." "But probably he will agree to let us do that now," James said. "He may agree," Nat said, contemptuously; "but how about the redskins? Do you think that, after losing a lot of their braves, they are going to see us march quietly away, and go home without a scalp? I tell you, captain, I know redskin nature, and, as sure as the sun rises tomorrow, there will be a massacre; and I, for one, ain't going to lay down my rifle, and let the first redskin, as takes a fancy to my scalp, tomahawk me." "Well, but what do you propose, Nat?" "Well, captain, I have heard you say yours is an independent command, and that you can act with the company wherever you like. While you are here, I know you are under the orders of the colonel; but if you had chosen to march away on any expedition of your own, you could have done it." "That is so, Nat; but now the siege is once begun, I don't know that I should be justified in marching away, even if I could." "But they are going to surrender, I tell you," Nat insisted. "I don't see as how it can be your duty to hand over your company to the French, if you can get them clear away, so as to fight for the king again." "What do you say, Edwards?" James asked his lieutenant. "I don't see why we shouldn't march away, if we could," Edwards said. "Now that the game is quite lost here, I don't think anyone could blame you for saving the company, if possible, and I agree with Nat that Montcalm will find it difficult, if not impossible, to keep his Indians in hand. The French have never troubled much on that score." "Well, Nat, what is your plan?" James asked, after a pause. "The plan is simple enough," Nat said. "There ain't no plan at all. All we have got to do is to march quietly down to the lake, to take some of the canoes that are hauled up at the mouth of the swamp, and to paddle quietly off, keeping under the trees on the right-hand side. There ain't many redskins in the woods that way, and the night is as dark as pitch. We can land eight or ten miles down the lake, and then march away to the right, so as to get clean round the redskins altogether." "Very well, Nat, I will do it," James said. "It's a chance, but I think it's a better chance than staying here, and if I should get into a row about it, I can't help it. I am doing it for the best." The corps were quietly mustered, and marched out through the gate of the intrenchments, on the side of the lake. No questions were asked, for the corps had several times gone out on its own account, and driven back the Indians and French pickets. The men had, from their first arrival at the fort, laid aside their heavy boots, and taken to moccasins as being better fitted for silent movement in the forest. Therefore not a sound was heard as, under Nat's guidance, they made their way down the slope into the swamp. Here they were halted, for the moment, and told to move with the greatest care and silence, and to avoid snapping a bough or twig. This, however, was the less important, as the cannon on both sides were still firing, and a constant rattle of musketry was going on round the fort. Presently, they reached the point where the canoes were hauled up, and were told off, three to a canoe. "Follow my canoe in single file," James said. "Not a word is to be spoken, and remember that a single splash of a paddle will bring the redskins down upon us. Likely enough there may be canoes out upon the lake--there are sure to be Indians in the wood." "I don't think there's much fear, captain," Nat whispered. "There's no tiring a redskin when he's out on the scout on his own account, but when he's acting with the whites he's just as lazy as a hog, and, as they must be sure the fort can't hold out many hours longer, they will be too busy feasting, and counting the scalps they mean to take, to think much about scouting tonight." "We shall go very slowly. Let every man stop paddling the instant the canoe ahead of him stops," were James's last instructions, as he stepped into the stern of a canoe, while Nat and Jonathan took the paddles. Edwards was to take his place in the last canoe in the line. Without the slightest sound, the canoes paddled out into the lake, and then made for the east shore. They were soon close to the trees, and, slowly and noiselessly, they kept their way just outside the screen afforded by the boughs drooping down, almost into the water. Only now and then the slightest splash was to be heard along the line, and this might well have been taken for the spring of a tiny fish feeding. Several times, when he thought he heard a slight sound in the forest on his right, Nat ceased paddling, and lay for some minutes motionless, the canoes behind doing the same. So dark was it, that they could scarce see the trees close beside them, while the bright flashes from the guns from fort and batteries only seemed to make the darkness more intense. It was upwards of an hour before James felt, from the greater speed with which the canoe was travelling, that Nat believed that he had got beyond the spot where any Indians were likely to be watching in the forest. Faster and faster the boat glided along, but the scouts were still far from rowing their hardest. For, although the whole of the men were accustomed to the use of the paddle, the other boats would be unable to keep up with that driven by the practised arms of the leaders of the file. After paddling for another hour and a half, the scout stopped. "We are far enough away now," Nat said. "There ain't no chance in the world of any redskins being in the woods, so far out as this. The hope of scalps will have taken them all down close to the fort. We can land safely, now." The word was passed down the line of canoes, the boats glided through the screen of foliage, and the men landed. "Better pull the canoes ashore, captain. If we left them in the water, one might break adrift and float out beyond the trees. Some redskin or other would make it out, and we should have a troop of them on our trail, before an hour had passed." "There's no marching through the forest now, Nat," James said. "I can't see my own hand close to my face." "That's so, captain, and we'd best halt till daylight. I could make my way along, easy enough, but some of these fellows would be pitching over stumps, or catching their feet in a creeper, and, like enough, letting off their pieces as they went down. We may just as well stay where we are. They ain't likely to miss us, even in the camp, and sartin the redskins can't have known we have gone. So there's no chance whatever of pursuit, and there ain't nothing to be gained by making haste." James gave the order. The men felt about, till each found a space of ground, sufficiently large to lie down upon, and soon all were asleep except the two scouts, who said, at once, that they would watch by turns till daylight. As soon as it was sufficiently light to see in the forest, the band were again in motion. They made due east, until they crossed the trail leading from the head of Lake Champlain to Fort Edward; kept on for another hour, and then, turning to the south, made in the direction of Albany, for it would have been dangerous to approach Fort Edward, round which the Indians were sure to be scattered thickly. For the first two hours after starting, the distant roar of the guns had gone on unceasingly, then it suddenly stopped. "They have hoisted the white flag," Edwards said. "It is all over. Thank God, we are well out of it! I don't mind fighting, Walsham, but to be massacred by those Indians is a hideous idea." "I am glad we are out of it too," James agreed; "but I cannot think that Montcalm, with so large a force of French regulars at his command, will allow those fiendish Indians to massacre the prisoners." "I hope not," Edwards said. "It will be a disgrace indeed to him and his officers if he does; but you know what the Indians are, better than I do, and you have heard Nat's opinion. You see, if Montcalm were to use force against the Indians, the whole of them would go off, and then there would be an end to any hope of the French beating the colonists in the long run. Montcalm daren't break with them. It's a horrible position for an officer and a gentleman to be placed in. Montcalm did manage to prevent the redskins from massacring the garrison of Oswego, but it was as much as he could do, and it will be ten times as difficult, now that their blood is up with this week of hard fighting, and the loss of many of their warriors. Anyhow, I am glad I am out of it, even if the bigwigs consider we had no right to leave the fort, and break us for it. I would rather lose my commission than run the risk of being massacred in cold blood." James agreed with him. For two days, they continued their march through the forest, using every precaution against surprise. They saw, however, nothing of the enemy, and emerged from the forest, on the evening of the second day's march, at a distance of a few miles from Albany. They had not reached that town many hours, when they learned that Nat's sombre predictions had been fulfilled. The council of war in the fort agreed that further resistance was impossible, and Lieutenant Colonel Young went out, with a white flag, to arrange the terms of surrender with Montcalm. It was agreed that the English troops should march out, with the honours of war, and be escorted to Fort Edward by a detachment of French troops; that they should not serve for eighteen months; and that all French prisoners captured in America, since the war began, should be given up within three months. The stores, ammunition, and artillery were to be handed over to the French, except one field piece, which the garrison were to be allowed to retain, in recognition of their brave defence. Before signing the capitulation, Montcalm summoned the Indian chiefs before him, and asked them to consent to the conditions, and to restrain their young braves from any disorder. They gave their approval, and promised to maintain order. The garrison then evacuated the fort, and marched to join their comrades in the intrenched camp. No sooner had they moved out, than a crowd of Indians rushed into the fort through the breach and embrasures, and butchered all the wounded who had been left behind to be cared for by the French. Having committed this atrocity the Indians, and many of the Canadians, rushed up to the intrenched camp, where the English were now collected. The French guards, who had been stationed there, did nothing to keep them out; and they wandered about, threatening and insulting the terrified women, telling the men that everyone should be massacred, and plundering the baggage. Montcalm did his best, by entreaty, to restrain the Indians, but he took no steps whatever to give effectual protection to the prisoners, and that he did not do so will remain an ineffaceable blot upon his fame. Seeing the disposition of the redskins, he should have ordered up all the regular French troops, and marched the English garrison under their protection to Fort Edward, in accordance with the terms of surrender; and he should have allowed the English troops to again fill their pouches with cartridge, by which means they would have been able to fight in their own defence. The next morning, the English marched at daybreak. Seventeen wounded men were left behind in the huts, having been, in accordance with the agreement, handed over to the charge of a French surgeon; but as he was not there in the morning, the regimental surgeon, Miles Whitworth, remained with them attending to their wants. The French surgeon had caused special sentinels to be placed for their protection, but these were now removed, when they were needed most. At five in the morning the Indians entered the huts, dragged out the inmates, tomahawked and scalped them before the eyes of Whitworth, and in the presence of La Corne and other Canadian officers, as well as of a French guard stationed within forty feet of the spot--none of whom, as Whitworth declared on oath, did anything to protect the wounded men. The Indians, in the meantime, had begun to plunder the baggage of the column. Monro complained, to the officers of the French escort, that the terms of the capitulation were broken; but the only answer was that he had better give up all the baggage to the Indians, to appease them. But it had no effect in restraining the passion of the Indians. They rushed upon the column, snatching caps, coats, and weapons from men and officers, tomahawking all who resisted, and, seizing upon shrieking women and children, carried them away or murdered them on the spot. A rush was made upon the New Hampshire men, at the rear of the column, and eighty of them were killed or carried away. The Canadian officers did nothing at all to try to assuage the fury of the Indians, and the officers of the Canadian detachment, which formed the advance guard of the French escort, refused any protection to the men, telling them they had better take to the woods and shift for themselves. Montcalm, and the principal French officers, did everything short of the only effectual step, namely, the ordering up of the French regular troops to save the English. They ran about among the yelling Indians, imploring them to desist, but in vain. Some seven or eight hundred of the English were seized and carried off by the savages, while some seventy or eighty were massacred on the spot. The column attempted no resistance. None had ammunition, and, of the colonial troops, very few were armed with bayonets. Had any resistance been offered, there can be no doubt all would have been massacred by the Indians. Many of the fugitives ran back to the fort, and took refuge there, and Montcalm recovered from the Indians more than four hundred of those they had carried off. These were all sent under a strong guard to Fort Edward. The greater part of the survivors of the column dispersed into the woods, and made their way in scattered parties to Fort Edward. Here cannon had been fired at intervals, to serve as a guide to the fugitives, but many, no doubt, perished in the woods. On the morning after the massacre the Indians left in a body for Montreal, taking with them two hundred prisoners, to be tortured and murdered on their return to their villages. Few events cast a deeper disgrace on the arms of France than this massacre, committed in defiance of their pledged honour for the safety of their prisoners, and in sight of four thousand French troops, not a man of whom was set in motion to prevent it. These facts are not taken only from English sources, but from the letters of French officers, and from the journal of the Jesuit Roubaud, who was in charge of the Christianized Indians, who, according to his own account, were no less ferocious and cruel than the unconverted tribes. The number of those who perished in the massacre is uncertain. Captain Jonathan Carver, a colonial officer, puts the killed and captured at 1500. A French writer, whose work was published at Montreal, says that they were all killed, except seven hundred who were captured; but this is, of course, a gross exaggeration. General Levis and Roubaud, who were certain to have made the best of the matter, acknowledged that they saw some fifty corpses scattered on the ground, but this does not include those murdered in the fort and camp. Probably the total number killed was about two hundred, and besides these must be counted the two hundred prisoners carried off to be tortured by the Indians. The greater portion of these were purchased from the Indians, in exchange for rum, by Vaudreuil, the governor at Montreal; but to the eternal disgrace of this man, he suffered many of them to be carried off, and did not even interfere when, publicly, in the sight of the whole town, the Indians murdered some of the prisoners, and, not content with eating them themselves, forced their comrades to partake of the flesh. Bougainville, one of the aides-de-camp of Montcalm, was present, and testified to the fact, and the story is confirmed by the intendant Bigot, a friend of the governor. The ferocity of the Indians cost them dear. They had dug up and scalped the corpses in the graveyard of Fort William Henry. Many of these had died of smallpox, and the savages took the infection home to their villages, where great numbers perished of the disease. As soon as their Indian allies had left, the French soldiers were set to work demolishing the English fort, and the operation was completed by the destruction, by fire, of the remains. The army then returned to Crown Point. In view of the gross breach of the articles of capitulation by the French, the English government refused also to be bound by it, and the French prisoners in their hands were accordingly retained. Colonel Monro himself was one of those who survived. He had made his way through the savages back to the fort, to demand that the protection of the French troops should be given to the soldiers, and so escaped the massacre. Upon his arrival at Albany, James reported, to the officer in command there, the reason which had induced him to quit the fort with his company. These reasons were approved of, but the officer advised James to send in a written report to General Webb, and to march at once to Fort Edward, and place himself under that officer's directions. When he reached the fort, the fugitives were coming in from the woods. James at once reported himself to the general, and handed in his written statement. At the same time he gave his reasons, in a few words, for the course he had taken. Webb was far too much excited by the news of the terrible events which had taken place, and for which, as he could not but be aware, he would be to some extent held responsible, by public opinion, for having refused to move to Monro's assistance, to pay much attention to the young officer's statement. "You were quite right, sir, quite right to carry off your command," he said hastily. "Thank God there are so many the fewer of his majesty's troops sacrificed! You will please take your company out at once into the woods. They are accustomed to the work, which is more than any of my troops here are. Divide them into four parties, and let them scour the forest, and bring in such of the fugitives as they can find. Let them take as much provisions and rum as they can carry, for many of the fugitives will be starving." James executed his orders, and, during the next five days, sent in a considerable number of exhausted men, who, hopelessly lost in the woods, must have perished unless they had been discovered by his party. Had Montcalm marched direct upon Fort Edward, he could doubtless have captured it, for the fall of Fort William Henry had so scared Webb, that he would probably have retreated the moment he heard the news of Montcalm's advance, although, within a day or two of the fall of the fort, many thousands of colonial militia had arrived. As soon, however, as it was known that Montcalm had retired, the militia, who were altogether unsupplied with the means of keeping the field, returned to their homes. Loudon, on his way back from the unsuccessful expedition against Louisbourg, received the news of the calamity at Fort William Henry. He returned too late to do anything to retrieve that disaster, and determined, in the spring, to take the offensive by attacking Ticonderoga. This had been left, on the retirement of Montcalm, with a small garrison commanded by Captain Hepecourt, who, during the winter, was continually harassed by the corps of Captain Rogers, and James Walsham's scouts. Toward the spring, receiving reinforcements, Hepecourt caught Rogers and a hundred and eighty men in an ambush, and killed almost all of them; Rogers himself, and some twenty or thirty men, alone escaping. In the spring there was a fresh change of plans. The expedition against Ticonderoga was given up, as another attempt at Louisbourg was about to be made. The English government were determined that the disastrous delays, which had caused the failure of the last expedition, should not be repeated. Loudon was recalled, and to General Abercromby, the second in command, was intrusted the charge of the forces in the colonies. Colonel Amherst was raised to the rank of major general, and appointed to command the expedition from England against Louisbourg, having under him Brigadier Generals Whitmore, Lawrence, and Wolfe. Before the winter was ended two fleets put to sea: the one, under Admiral Boscawen, was destined for Louisbourg; while the other, under Admiral Osborne, sailed for the Straits of Gibraltar, to intercept the French fleet of Admiral La Clue, which was about to sail from Toulon for America. At the same time Sir Edward Hawke, with seven ships of the line and three frigates, sailed for Rochefort, where a French squadron with a fleet of transports, with troops for America, were lying. The two latter expeditions were perfectly successful. Osborne prevented La Clue from leaving the Mediterranean. Hawke drove the enemy's vessels ashore at Rochefort, and completely broke up the expedition. Thus Canada, at the critical period, when the English were preparing to strike a great blow at her, was cut off from all assistance from the mother country, and left to her own resources. As before, Halifax was the spot where the troops from the colonies were to meet the fleet from England, and the troops who came out under their convoy, and here, on the 28th of May, the whole expedition was collected. The colonies had again been partially stripped of their defenders, and five hundred provincial rangers accompanied the regulars. James Walsham's corps was left for service on the frontier, while the regiments, to which they belonged, sailed with the force destined for the siege of Louisbourg. This fortress stood, at the mouth of a land-locked bay, on the stormy coast of Cape Breton. Since the peace of Aix la Chapelle, vast sums had been spent in repairing and strengthening it, and it was, by far, the strongest fortress in English or French America. The circuit of its fortifications was more than a mile and a half, and the town contained about four thousand inhabitants. The garrison consisted of the battalions of Artois, Bourgogne, Cambis, and Volontaires Etrangers, with two companies of artillery, and twenty-four of colonial troops; in all, three thousand and eighty men, besides officers. In the harbour lay five ships of the line and seven frigates, carrying five hundred and forty-four guns, and about three thousand men, and there were two hundred and nineteen cannons and seventeen mortars mounted on the ramparts and outworks, and forty-four in reserve. Of the outworks, the strongest were the grand battery at Lighthouse Point, at the mouth of the harbour; and that on Goat Island, a rocky islet at its entrance. The strongest front of the works was on the land side, across the base of the triangular peninsula on which the town stood. This front, twelve hundred yards in extent, reached from the sea, on the left, to the harbour on the right, and consisted of four strong bastions with connecting works. The best defence of Louisbourg, however, was the craggy shore, which, for leagues on either side, was accessible only at a few points, and, even there, a landing could only be effected with the greatest difficulty. All these points were watched, for an English squadron, of nine ships of war, had been cruising off the place, endeavouring to prevent supplies from arriving; but they had been so often blown off, by gales, that the French ships had been able to enter, and, on the 2nd of June, when the English expedition came in sight, more than a year's supply of provisions was stored up in the town.	{ "id": "17766" }
17	: Louisbourg And Ticonderoga.	All eyes in the fleet were directed towards the rocky shore of Gabarus Bay, a flat indentation some three miles across, its eastern extremity, White Point, being a mile to the west of Louisbourg. The sea was rough, and the white masses of surf were thrown high up upon the face of the rock, along the coast, as far as the eye could reach. A more difficult coast on which to effect a landing could not have been selected. There were but three points where boats could, even in fine weather, get to shore--namely, White Point, Flat Point, and Fresh Water Cove. To cover these, the French had erected several batteries, and, as soon as the English fleet was in sight, they made vigorous preparations to repel a landing. Boats were at once lowered, in order to make a reconnaissance of the shore. Generals Amherst, Lawrence, and Wolfe all took part in it, and a number of naval officers, in their boats, daringly approached the shore to almost within musket shot. When they returned, in the afternoon, they made their reports to the admiral, and these reports all agreed with his own opinion--namely, that there was but little chance of success. One naval captain alone, an old officer named Fergusson, advised the admiral to hold no council of war, but to take the responsibility on himself, and to make the attempt at all risks. "Why, admiral," he said, "the very children at home would laugh at us, if, for a second time, we sailed here with an army, and then sailed away again without landing a man." "So they would, Fergusson, so they would," the admiral said. "If I have to stop here till winter, I won't go till I have carried out my orders, and put the troops ashore." In addition to the three possible landing places already named, was one to the east of the town named Lorambec, and it was determined to send a regiment to threaten a landing at this place, while the army, formed into three divisions, were to threaten the other points, and effect a landing at one or all of them, if it should be found possible. On the next day, however, the 3rd of June, the surf was so high that nothing could be attempted. On the 4th there was a thick fog and a gale, and the frigate Trent struck on a rock, and some of the transports were nearly blown on shore. The sea was very heavy, and the vessels rolled tremendously at their anchors. Most of the troops suffered terribly from seasickness. The next day, the weather continued thick and stormy. On the 6th there was fog, but towards noon the wind went down, whereupon the signal was made, the boats were lowered, and the troops took their places in them. Scarcely had they done so, when the wind rose again, and the sea got up so rapidly that the landing was postponed. The next day the fog and heavy surf continued, but in the evening the sea grew calmer, and orders were issued for the troops to take to the boats, at two o'clock next morning. This was done, and the frigates got under sail, and steered for the four points at which the real or pretended attacks were to be made, and, anchoring within easy range, opened fire soon after daylight; while the boats, in three divisions, rowed towards the shore. The division under Wolfe consisted of twelve companies of Grenadiers, with the Light infantry, Fraser's Highlanders, and the New England Rangers. Fresh Water Cove was a crescent-shaped beach a quarter of a mile long, with rocks at each end. On the shore above lay 1000 Frenchmen under Lieutenant Colonel de Saint Julien, with eight cannons, on swivels, planted to sweep every part of the beach. The intrenchments, behind which the troops were lying, were covered in front by spruce and fir trees, felled and laid on the ground with the tops outward. Not a shot was fired until the English boats approached the beach, then, from behind the leafy screen, a deadly storm of grape and musketry was poured upon them. It was clear at once that to advance would be destruction, and Wolfe waved his hand as a signal to the boats to sheer off. On the right of the line, and but little exposed to the fire, were three boats of the Light Infantry under Lieutenants Hopkins and Brown, and Ensign Grant, who, mistaking the signal, or wilfully misinterpreting it, dashed for the shore directly before them. It was a hundred yards or so east of the beach--a craggy coast, lashed by the breakers, but sheltered from the cannon by a small projecting point. The three young officers leapt ashore, followed by their men. Major Scott, who commanded the Light Infantry and Rangers, was in the next boat, and at once followed the others, putting his boat's head straight to the shore. The boat was crushed to pieces against the rocks. Some of the men were drowned, but the rest scrambled up the rocks, and joined those who had first landed. They were instantly attacked by the French, and half of the little party were killed or wounded before the rest of the division could come to their assistance. Some of the boats were upset, and others stove in, but most of the men scrambled ashore, and, as soon as he landed, Wolfe led them up the rocks, where they formed in compact order and carried, with the bayonet, the nearest French battery. The other divisions, seeing that Wolfe had effected a landing, came rapidly up, and, as the French attention was now distracted by Wolfe's attack on the left, Amherst and Lawrence were able to land at the other end of the beach, and, with their divisions, attacked the French on the right. These, assaulted on both sides, and fearing to be cut off from the town, abandoned their cannon and fled into the woods. Some seventy of them were taken prisoners, and fifty killed. The rest made their way through the woods and marshes to Louisbourg, and the French in the other batteries commanding the landing places, seeing that the English were now firmly established on the shore, also abandoned the positions, and retreated to the town. General Amherst established the English camp just beyond the range of the cannon on the ramparts, and the fleet set to work to land guns and stores at Flat Point Cove. For some days this work went on; but so violent was the surf, that more than a hundred boats were stove in in accomplishing it, and none of the siege guns could be landed till the 18th. While the sailors were so engaged, the troops were busy making roads and throwing up redoubts to protect their position. Wolfe, with 1200 men, made his way right round the harbour, and took possession of the battery at Lighthouse Point which the French had abandoned; planted guns and mortars there, and opened fire on the battery on the islet which guarded the entrance to the harbour; while other batteries were raised, at different points along the shore, and opened fire upon the French ships. These replied, and the artillery duel went on night and day, until, on the 25th, the battery on the islet was silenced. Leaving a portion of his force in the batteries he had erected, Wolfe returned to the main army in front of the town. In the meantime, Amherst had not been idle. Day and night a thousand men had been employed, making a covered road across a swamp to a hillock less than half a mile from the ramparts. The labour was immense, and the troops worked knee deep in mud and water. When Wolfe had silenced the battery on the islet, the way was open for the English fleet to enter and engage the ships and town from the harbour, but the French took advantage of a dark and foggy night, and sank six ships across the entrance. On the 25th, the troops had made the road to the hillock, and began to fortify themselves there, under a heavy fire from the French; while on the left, towards the sea, about a third of a mile from the Princess's Bastion, Wolfe, with a strong detachment, began to throw up a redoubt. On the night of the 9th of July, 600 French troops sallied out and attacked this work. The English, though fighting desperately, were for a time driven back; but, being reinforced, they drove the French back into the town. Each day the English lines drew closer to the town. The French frigate Echo, under cover of a fog, had been sent to Quebec for aid, but she was chased and captured. The frigate Arethuse, on the night of the 14th of July, was towed through the obstructions at the mouth of the harbour, and, passing through the English ships in a fog, succeeded in getting away. Only five vessels of the French fleet now remained in the harbour, and these were but feebly manned, as 2000 of the officers and seamen had landed, and were encamped in the town. On the afternoon of the 16th a party of English, led by Wolfe, suddenly dashed forward, and, driving back a company of French, seized some rising ground within three hundred yards of the ramparts, and began to intrench themselves there. All night, the French kept up a furious fire at the spot, but, by morning, the English had completed their intrenchment, and from this point pushed on, until they had reached the foot of the glacis. On the 21st, the French man of war Celebre was set on fire by the explosion of a shell. The wind blew the flames into the rigging of two of her consorts, and these also caught fire, and the three ships burned to the water's edge. Several fires were occasioned in the town, and the English guns, of which a great number were now in position, kept up a storm of fire night and day. On the night of the 23rd, six hundred English sailors silently rowed into the harbour, cut the cables of the two remaining French men of war, and tried to tow them out. One, however, was aground, for the tide was low. The sailors therefore set her on fire, and then towed her consort out of the harbour, amidst a storm of shot and shell from the French batteries. The French position was now desperate. Only four cannon, on the side facing the English batteries, were fit for service. The masonry of the ramparts was shaken, and the breaches were almost complete. A fourth of the garrison were in hospital, and the rest were worn out by toil. Every house in the place was shattered by the English artillery, and there was no shelter either for the troops or the inhabitants. On the 26th, the last French cannon was silenced, and a breach effected in the wall; and the French, unable longer to resist, hung out the white flag. They attempted to obtain favourable conditions, but Boscawen and Amherst insisted upon absolute surrender, and the French, wholly unable to resist further, accepted the terms. Thus fell the great French stronghold on Cape Breton. The defence had been a most gallant one; and Drucour, the governor, although he could not save the fortress, had yet delayed the English so long before the walls, that it was too late in the season, now, to attempt an attack on Canada itself. Wolfe, indeed, urged that an expedition should at once be sent against Quebec, but Boscawen was opposed to this, owing to the lateness of the season, and Amherst was too slow and deliberate, by nature, to determine suddenly on the enterprise. He, however, sailed with six regiments for Boston, to reinforce Abercromby at Lake George. Wolfe carried out the orders of the general, to destroy the French settlements on the Gulf of Saint Lawrence--a task most repugnant to his humane nature. After this had been accomplished, he sailed for England. When Amherst had sailed with his expedition to the attack of Louisbourg, he had not left the colonists in so unprotected a state as they had been in the preceding year. They, on their part, responded nobly to the call, from England, that a large force should be put in the field. The home government had promised to supply arms, ammunition, tents, and provisions, and to make a grant towards the pay and clothing of the soldiers. Massachusetts, as usual, responded most freely and loyally to the demand. She had already incurred a very heavy debt by her efforts in the war, and had supplied 2500 men--a portion of whom had gone with Amherst--but she now raised 7000 more, whom she paid, maintained, and clothed out of her own resources, thus placing in the field one-fourth of her able-bodied men. Connecticut made equal sacrifices, although less exposed to danger of invasion; while New Hampshire sent out one-third of her able-bodied men. In June the combined British and provincial force, under Abercromby, gathered on the site of Fort William Henry. The force consisted of 6367 officers and soldiers of the regular army, and 9054 colonial troops. Abercromby himself was an infirm and incapable man, who owed his position to political influence. The real command was in the hands of Brigadier General Lord Howe--a most energetic and able officer, who had, during the past year, thoroughly studied forest warfare, and had made several expeditions with the scouting parties of Rogers and other frontier leaders. He was a strict disciplinarian, but threw aside all the trammels of the traditions of the service. He made both officers and men dress in accordance with the work they had before them. All had to cut their hair close, to wear leggings to protect them from the briars, and to carry in their knapsacks thirty pounds of meal, which each man had to cook for himself. The coats, of both the Regulars and Provincials, were cut short at the waist, and no officer or private was allowed to carry more than one blanket and a bear skin. Howe himself lived as simply and roughly as his men. The soldiers were devoted to their young commander, and were ready to follow him to the death. "That's something like a man for a general," Nat said enthusiastically, as he marched, with the Royal Scouts, past the spot where Lord Howe was sitting on the ground, eating his dinner with a pocket knife. "I have never had much hope of doing anything, before, with the regulars in the forest, but I do think, this time, we have got a chance of licking the French. What do you say, captain?" "It looks more hopeful, Nat, certainly. Under Loudon and Webb things did not look very bright, but this is a different sort of general altogether." On the evening of the 4th of July baggage, stores, and ammunition were all on board the boats, and the whole army embarked at daybreak on the 5th. It was indeed a magnificent sight, as the flotilla started. It consisted of 900 troop boats, 135 whale boats, and a large number of heavy flatboats carrying the artillery. They were in three divisions, the regulars in the centre, the provincial troops on either flank. Each corps had its flags and its music, the day was fair and bright, and, as the flotilla swept on past the verdure-clad hills, with the sun shining brilliantly down on the bright uniforms and gay flags, on the flash of oars and the glitter of weapons, a fairer sight was seldom witnessed. At five in the afternoon, they reached Sabbath Day Point, twenty-five miles down the lake, where they halted some time for the baggage and artillery. At eleven o'clock they started again, and by daybreak were nearing the outlet of the lake. An advanced party of the French were watching their movements, and a detachment was seen, near the shore, at the spot where the French had embarked on the previous year. The companies of Rogers and James Walsham landed, and drove them off, and by noon the whole army was on shore. The troops started in four columns, but so dense was the forest, so obstructed with undergrowth, that they could scarcely make their way, and, after a time, even the guides became confused in the labyrinth of trunks and boughs, and the four columns insensibly drew near to each other. Curiously, the French advanced party, 350 strong, who had tried to retreat, also became lost in the wood, and, not knowing where the English were, in their wanderings again approached them. As they did so Lord Howe, who, with Major Putnam, and 200 rangers and scouts, was at the head of the principal column, suddenly came upon them. A skirmish followed. Scarcely had it begun when Lord Howe dropped dead, shot through the breast. For a moment, something like a panic seized the army, who believed that they had fallen into an ambush, and that Montcalm's whole force was upon them. The rangers, however, fought steadily, until Rogers' Rangers and the Royal Scouts, who were out in front, came back and took the French in the rear. Only about 50 of these escaped, 148 were captured, and the rest killed or drowned in endeavouring to cross the rapids. The loss of the English was small in numbers, but the death of Howe inflicted an irreparable blow upon the army. As Major Mante, who was present, wrote: "In Lord Howe, the soul of General Abercromby's army seemed to expire. From the unhappy moment that the general was deprived of his advice, neither order nor discipline was observed, and a strange kind of infatuation usurped the place of resolution." The loss of its gallant young general was, indeed, the destruction of an army of 15,000 men. Abercromby seemed paralysed by the stroke, and could do nothing, and the soldiers were needlessly kept under arms all night in the forest, and, in the morning, were ordered back to the landing place. At noon, however, Bradstreet was sent out to take possession of the sawmill, at the falls which Montcalm had abandoned the evening before. Bradstreet rebuilt the two bridges, which had been destroyed by the enemy, and the army then advanced, and in the evening occupied the deserted encampment of the French. Montcalm had, for some days, been indecisive as to his course. His force was little more than a fourth of that of the advancing foe. He had, for some time, been aware of the storm which was preparing against him. Vaudreuil, the governor, had at first intended to send a body of Canadians and Indians, under General Levis, down the valley of the Mohawk to create a diversion, but this scheme had been abandoned, and, instead of sending Levis, with his command, to the assistance of Montcalm, he had kept them doing nothing at Montreal. Just about the hour Lord Howe was killed, Montcalm fell back with his force from his position by the falls, and resolved to make a stand at the base of the peninsula on which Ticonderoga stands. The outline of the works had already been traced, and the soldiers of the battalion of Berry had made some progress in constructing them. At daybreak, just as Abercromby was drawing his troops back to the landing place, Montcalm's whole army set to work. Thousands of trees were hewn down, and the trunks piled one upon another, so as to form a massive breastwork. The line followed the top of the ridge, with many zigzags, so that the whole front could be swept by a fire of musketry and grape. The log wall was eight or nine feet high, and the upper tier was formed of single logs, in which notches were cut to serve as loopholes. The whole space in front was cleared of trees, for the distance of a musket shot, the trees being felled so that their tops turned outwards, forming an almost impenetrable obstacle, while, immediately in front of the log wall, the ground was covered with heavy boughs, overlapping and interlaced, their points being sharpened. This position was, in fact, absolutely impregnable against an attack, in front, by infantry. It was true that Abercromby might have brought up his artillery, and battered down the breastwork, or he might have planted a battery on the heights which commanded the position, or he might have marched a portion of his army through the woods, and placed them on the road between Ticonderoga and Crown Point, and so have cut off the whole French army, and forced them to surrender, for they had but eight days' provisions. But Howe was dead, there was no longer leading or generalship, and Abercromby, leaving his cannon behind him, marched his army to make a direct attack on the French intrenchment. In the course of the night Levis, with 400 of his men, arrived, and the French were in readiness for the attack. The battalions of La Sarre and Languedoc were posted on the left under Bourlamaque, Berry and Royal Roussillon in the centre under Montcalm, La Reine, Beam, and Guienne on the right under Levis. A detachment of volunteers occupied the low ground between the breastwork and the outlet of Lake George, while 450 Canadian troops held an abattis on the side towards Lake Champlain, where they were covered by the guns of the fort. Until noon, the French worked unceasingly to strengthen their position, then a heavy fire broke out in front, as the rangers and light infantry drove in their pickets. As soon as the English issued from the wood, they opened fire, and then the regulars, formed in columns of attack, pushed forward across the rough ground with its maze of fallen trees. They could see the top of the breastwork, but not the men behind it, and as soon as they were fairly entangled in the trees, a terrific fire opened upon them. The English pushed up close to the breastwork, but they could not pass the bristling mass of sharpened branches, which were swept by a terrific crossfire from the intrenchment. After striving for an hour, they fell back. Abercromby, who had remained at the mill a mile and a half in the rear, sent orders for them to attack again. Never did the English fight with greater bravery. Six times did they advance to the attack, but the task set them was impossible. At five in the afternoon, two English columns made an assault on the extreme right of the French, and, although Montcalm hastened to the spot with his reserves, they nearly succeeded in breaking through, hewing their way right to the very foot of the breastwork, and renewing the attack over and over again, the Highland regiment, which led the column, fighting with desperate valour, and not retiring until its major and twenty-five of the officers were killed or wounded, and half the men had fallen under the deadly fire. At six o'clock another desperate attempt was made, but in vain; then the regulars fell back in disorder, but, for an hour and a half, the provincials and rangers kept up a fire, while their comrades removed the wounded. Abercromby had lost in killed, wounded, and missing 1944 officers and men, while the loss of the French was 377. Even now, Abercromby might have retrieved his repulse, for, with 13,000 men still remaining, against 3300 unwounded Frenchmen, he could still have easily forced them to surrender, by planting cannons on the heights, or by cutting off their communication and food. He did neither, but, at daybreak, re-embarked his army, and retired with all speed down the lake. Montcalm soon received large reinforcements, and sent out scouting parties. One of these caught a party commanded by Captain Rogers in an ambush, but were finally driven back, with such heavy loss that, from that time, few scouting parties were sent out from Ticonderoga. In October, Montcalm, with the main portion of his army, retired for the winter to Montreal; while the English fell back to Albany. While Abercromby was lying inactive at the head of Lake George, Brigadier General Forbes had advanced from Virginia against Fort Duquesne, and, after immense labour and hardships, succeeded in arriving at the fort, which the French evacuated at his approach, having burnt the barracks and storehouses, and blown up the fortifications. A stockade was formed, and a fort afterwards built there. This was called Fort Pitt, and the place itself, Pittsburg. A small garrison was left there, and the army, after having collected and buried the bones of Braddock's men, retired to Virginia. The general, who, though suffering terribly from disease, had steadfastly carried out the enterprise in the face of enormous difficulties, died shortly after the force returned to the settlements. Another successful enterprise, during the autumn, had been the capture of Fort Frontenac, and the gaining of a foothold by the English on Lake Ontario. Thus, the campaign of 1758 was, on the whole, disastrous to the French. They had held their own triumphantly at Ticonderoga, but they had lost their great fortress of Louisbourg, their right had been forced back by the capture of Fort Duquesne, and their line of communication cut by the destruction of Fort Frontenac.	{ "id": "17766" }
18	: Quebec.	In the following spring, the French prepared to resist the serious attack which they expected would be made by way of Lake Champlain and Ontario. But a greater danger was threatening them, for, in the midst of their preparations, the news arrived from France that a great fleet was on its way, from England, to attack Quebec. The town was filled with consternation and surprise, for the Canadians had believed that the navigation of the Saint Lawrence was too difficult and dangerous for any hostile fleet to attempt. Their spirits rose however when, a few days later, a fleet of twenty-three ships, ladened with supplies from France, sailed up the river. A day or two later, the British fleet was at the mouth of the Saint Lawrence, and the whole forces of the colony, except three battalions posted at Ticonderoga, and a strong detachment placed so as to resist any hostile movement from Lake Ontario, were mustered at Quebec. Here were gathered five French battalions, the whole of the Canadian troops and militia, and upwards of a thousand Indians, in all amounting to more than sixteen thousand. The position was an extremely strong one. The main force was encamped on the high ground below Quebec, with their right resting on the Saint Charles River, and the left on the Montmorenci, a distance of between seven and eight miles. The front was covered by steep ground, which rose nearly from the edge of the Saint Lawrence, and the right was covered by the guns of the citadel of Quebec. A boom of logs, chained together, was laid across the mouth of the Saint Charles, which was further guarded by two hulks mounted with cannon. A bridge of boats, crossing the river a mile higher up, connected the city with the camp. All the gates of Quebec, except that of Saint Charles, which faced the bridge, were closed and barricaded. A hundred and six cannon were mounted on the walls, while a floating battery of twelve heavy pieces, a number of gunboats, and eight fire ships formed the river defences. The frigates, which had convoyed the merchant fleet, were taken higher up the river, and a thousand of their seamen came down, from Quebec, to man the batteries and gunboats. Against this force of sixteen thousand men, posted behind defensive works, on a position almost impregnable by nature, General Wolfe was bringing less than nine thousand troops. The steep and lofty heights, that lined the river, rendered the cannon of the ships useless to him, and the exigencies of the fleet, in such narrow and difficult navigation, prevented the sailors being landed to assist the troops. A large portion of Montcalm's army, indeed, consisted of Canadians, who were of little use in the open field, but could be trusted to fight well behind intrenchments. Wolfe was, unfortunately, in extremely bad health when he was selected, by Pitt, to command the expedition against Quebec; but under him were Brigadier Generals Monckton, Townshend, and Murray, all good officers. The fleet consisted of twenty-two ships of war, with frigates and sloops, and a great number of transports. It was, at first, divided into three squadrons. That under Admiral Durell sailed direct for the Saint Lawrence, to intercept the ships from France, but arrived at its destination a few days too late. That of Admiral Holmes sailed for New York, to take on board a portion of the army of Amherst and Abercromby. That of Admiral Saunders sailed to Louisbourg, but, finding the entrance blocked with ice, went on to Halifax, where it was joined by the squadron with the troops from New York. They then sailed again to Louisbourg, where they remained until the 6th of June, 1759, and then joined Durell at the mouth of the Saint Lawrence. Wolfe's force had been intended to be larger, and should have amounted to fourteen thousand men; but some regiments which were to have joined him from the West Indies were, at the last moment, countermanded, and Amherst, who no doubt felt some jealousy, at the command of this important expedition being given to an officer who had served under his orders at the taking of Louisbourg, sent a smaller contingent of troops than had been expected. Among the regiments which sailed was that of James Walsham. After the fight at Ticonderoga, in which upwards of half of his force had fallen, the little corps had been broken up, and the men had returned to duty with their regiments. Owing to the number of officers who had fallen, James now stood high on the list of lieutenants. He had had enough of scouting, and was glad to return to the regiment, his principal regret being that he had to part from his two trusty scouts. There was great joy, in the regiment, when the news was received that they were to go with the expedition against Quebec. They had formed part of Wolf''s division at Louisbourg, and, like all who had served with him, regarded with enthusiasm and confidence the leader whose frail body seemed wholly incapable of sustaining fatigue or hardship, but whose indomitable spirit and courage placed him ever in the front, and set an example which the bravest of his followers were proud to imitate. From time to time, James had received letters from home. Communication was irregular; but his mother and Mr. Wilks wrote frequently, and sometimes he received half a dozen letters at once. He had now been absent from home for four years, and his mother told him that he would scarcely recognize Aggie, who was now as tall as herself. Mrs. Walsham said that the girl was almost as interested as she was in his letters, and in the despatches from the war, in which his name had several times been mentioned, in connection with the services rendered by his scouts. Richard Horton had twice, during James's absence, returned home. The squire, Mrs. Walsham said, had received him very coolly, in consequence of the letter he had written when James was pressed as a seaman, and she said that Aggie seemed to have taken a great objection to him. She wondered, indeed, that he could stay an hour in the house after his reception there; but he seemed as if he didn't notice it, and took especial pains to try and overcome Aggie's feeling against him. While waiting at the mouth of the Saint Lawrence, Admiral Durell had succeeded in obtaining pilots to take the fleet up the river. He had sailed up the river to the point where the difficult navigation began, and where vessels generally took on board river pilots. Here he hoisted the French flag at the masthead, and the pilots, believing the ships to be a French squadron, which had eluded the watch of the English, came off in their boats, and were all taken prisoners, and forced, under pain of death, to take the English vessels safely up. The first difficulty of the passage was at Cape Tourmente, where the channel describes a complete zigzag. Had the French planted some guns on a plateau, high up on the side of the mountains, they could have done great damage by a plunging fire; but Vaudreuil had neglected to take this measure, and the fleet passed up in safety, the manner in which they were handled and navigated astonishing the Canadians, who had believed it to be impossible that large ships could be taken up. On the 26th, the whole fleet were anchored off the Island of Orleans, a few miles below Quebec. The same night, a small party landed on the island. They were opposed by the armed inhabitants, but beat them off, and, during the night, the Canadians crossed to the north shore. The whole army then landed. From the end of the island, Wolfe could see the full strength of the position which he had come to attack. Three or four miles in front of him, the town of Quebec stood upon its elevated rock. Beyond rose the loftier height of Cape Diamond, with its redoubts and parapets. Three great batteries looked threateningly from the upper rock of Quebec, while three others were placed, near the edge of the water, in the lower town. On the right was the great camp of Montcalm, stretching from the Saint Charles, at the foot of the city walls, to the gorge of the Montmorenci. From the latter point to the village of Beauport, in the centre of the camp, the front was covered with earthworks, along the brink of a lofty height; and from Beauport to the Saint Charles were broad flats of mud, swept by the fire of redoubts and intrenchments, by the guns of a floating battery, and by those of the city itself. Wolfe could not see beyond Quebec, but, above the city, the position was even stronger than below. The river was walled by a range of steeps, often inaccessible, and always so difficult that a few men could hold an army in check. Montcalm was perfectly confident of his ability to resist any attack which the British might make. Bougainville had long before examined the position, in view of the possibility of an English expedition against it, and reported that, with a few intrenchments, the city would be safe if defended by three or four thousand men. Sixteen thousand were now gathered there, and Montcalm might well believe the position to be impregnable. He was determined to run no risk, by advancing to give battle, but to remain upon the defensive till the resources of the English were exhausted, or till the approach of winter forced them to retire. His only source of uneasiness lay in the south, for he feared that Amherst, with his army, might capture Ticonderoga and advance into the colony, in which case he must weaken his army, by sending a force to oppose him. On the day after the army landed on the island, a sudden and very violent squall drove several of the ships ashore, and destroyed many of the flatboats. On the following night, the sentries at the end of the island saw some vessels coming down the river. Suddenly these burst into flames. They were the fire ships, which Vaudreuil had sent down to destroy the fleet. They were filled with pitch, tar, and all sorts of combustibles, with shell and grenades mixed up with them, while on their decks were a number of cannon, crammed to the mouth with grapeshot and musketballs. Fortunately for the English, the French naval officer in command lost his nerve, and set fire to his ship half an hour too soon; the other captains following his example. This gave the English time to recover from the first feeling of consternation at seeing the fire ships, each a pillar of flame, advancing with tremendous explosion and noise against them. The troops at once got under arms, lest the French should attack them, while the vessels lowered their boats, and the sailors rowed up to meet the fire ships. When they neared them, they threw grapnels on board, and towed them towards land until they were stranded, and then left them to burn out undisturbed. Finding that it would be impossible to effect a landing, under the fire of the French guns, Wolfe determined, as a first step, to seize the height of Point Levi opposite Quebec. From this point he could fire on the town across the Saint Lawrence, which is, here, less than a mile wide. On the afternoon of the 29th, Monckton's brigade crossed, in the boats, to Beaumont on the south shore. His advanced guard had a skirmish with a party of Canadians, but these soon fell back, and no further opposition was offered to the landing. In the morning a proclamation, issued by Wolfe, was posted on the doors of the parish churches. It called upon the Canadians to stand neutral in the contest, promising them, if they did so, full protection to their property and religion; but threatening that, if they resisted, their houses, goods, and harvest should be destroyed, and their churches sacked. The brigade marched along the river to Point Levi, and drove off a body of French and Indians posted there, and, the next morning, began to throw up intrenchments and to form batteries. Wolfe did not expect that his guns here could do any serious damage to the fortifications of Quebec. His object was partly to discourage the inhabitants of the city exposed to his fire, partly to keep up the spirits of his own troops by setting them to work. The guns of Quebec kept up a continual fire against the working parties, but the batteries continued to rise, and the citizens, alarmed at the destruction which threatened their houses, asked the governor to allow them to cross the river, and dislodge the English. Although he had no belief that they would succeed, he thought it better to allow them to try. Accordingly, some fifteen hundred armed citizens, and Canadians from the camp, with a few Indians, and a hundred volunteers from the regulars, marched up the river, and crossed on the night of the 12th of July. The courage of the citizens evaporated very quickly, now they were on the same side of the river as the English, although still three miles from them. In a short time a wild panic seized them. They rushed back in extreme disorder to their boats, crossed the river, and returned to Quebec. The English guns soon opened, and carried destruction into the city. In one day eighteen houses, and the cathedral, were burned by exploding shells; and the citizens soon abandoned their homes, and fled into the country. The destruction of the city, however, even if complete, would have advanced Wolfe's plans but little. It was a moral blow at the enemy, but nothing more. On the 8th of July, several frigates took their station before the camp of General Levis, who, with his division of Canadian militia, occupied the heights along the Saint Lawrence next to the gorge of Montmorenci. Here they opened fire with shell, and continued it till nightfall. Owing to the height of the plateau on which the camp was situated, they did but little damage, but the intention of Wolfe was simply to keep the enemy occupied and under arms. Towards evening, the troops on the island broke up their camp, and, leaving a detachment of marines to hold the post, the brigades of Townshend and Murray, three thousand strong, embarked after nightfall in the boats of the fleet, and landed a little below the Montmorenci, At daybreak, they climbed the heights, and, routing a body of Canadians and Indians who opposed them, gained the plateau and began to intrench themselves there. A company of rangers, supported by the regulars, was sent into the neighbouring forests; to prevent the parties from cutting bushes for the fascines, to explore the bank of the Montmorenci, and, if possible, to discover a ford across the river. Levis, with his aide-de-camp, a Jacobite Scotchman named Johnston, was watching the movements of Wolfe from the heights above the gorge. Levis believed that no ford existed, but Johnston found a man who had, only that morning, crossed. A detachment was at once sent to the place, with orders to intrench themselves, and Levis posted eleven hundred Canadians, under Repentigny, close by in support. Four hundred Indians passed the ford, and discovered the English detachment in the forest, and Langlade, their commander, recrossed the river, and told Repentigny that there was a body of English, in the forest, who might be destroyed if he would cross at once with his Canadians. Repentigny sent to Levis, and Levis to Vaudreuil, then three or four miles distant. Before Vaudreuil arrived on the spot, the Indians became impatient and attacked the rangers; and drove them back, with loss, upon the regulars, who stood their ground, and repulsed the assailants. The Indians, however, carried thirty-six scalps across the ford. If Repentigny had advanced when first called upon, and had been followed by Levis with his whole command, the English might have suffered a very severe check, for the Canadians were as much superior to the regulars, in the forest, as the regulars to the Canadians in the open. Vaudreuil called a council of war, but he and Montcalm agreed not to attack the English, who were, on their part, powerless to injure them. Wolfe's position on the heights was indeed a dangerous one. A third of his force was six miles away, on the other side of the Saint Lawrence, and the detachment on the island was separated from each by a wide arm of the river. Any of the three were liable to be attacked and overpowered, before the others could come to its assistance. Wolfe, indeed, was soon well intrenched, but, although safe against attack, he was powerless to take the offensive. The fact, however, that he had taken up his position so near their camp, had discomfited the Canadians, and his battery played, with considerable effect, on the left of their camp. The time passed slowly. The deep and impassable gulf of the Montmorenci separated the two enemies, but the crests of the opposite cliffs were within easy gunshot of each other, and men who showed themselves near the edge ran a strong chance of being hit. Along the river, from the Montmorenci to Point Levi, continued fighting went on between the guns of the frigates, and the gunboats and batteries on shore. The Indians swarmed in the forest, near the English camp, and constant skirmishing went on between them and the rangers. The steady work of destruction going on in the city of Quebec, by the fire from Point Levi, and the ceaseless cannonade kept up by the ships and Wolfe's batteries; added to the inactivity to which they were condemned, began to dispirit the Canadian militia, and many desertions took place, the men being anxious to return to their villages and look after the crops; and many more would have deserted, had it not been for the persuasion of the priests, and the fear of being maltreated by the Indians, whom the governor threatened to let loose upon any who should waver in their resistance. On the 18th of July a fresh move was made by the English. The French had believed it impossible for any hostile ships to pass the batteries of Quebec; but, covered by a furious cannonade from Point Levi, the man of war Sutherland, with a frigate and several small vessels, aided by a favouring wind, ran up the river at night and passed above the town. Montcalm at once despatched six hundred men, under Dumas, to defend the accessible points in the line of precipices above Quebec, and on the following day, when it became known that the English had dragged a fleet of boats over Point Levi, and had launched them above the town, a reinforcement of several hundreds more was sent to Dumas. On the night of the 20th Colonel Carleton, with six hundred men, rowed eighteen miles up the river, and landed at Pointe aux Trembles on the north shore. Here, many of the fugitives from Quebec had taken refuge, and a hundred women, children and old men were taken prisoners by Carleton, and brought down the next day with the retiring force. Wolfe entertained the prisoners kindly, and sent them, on the following day, with a flag of truce into Quebec. On the night of the 28th, the French made another attempt to burn the English fleet, sending down a large number of schooners, shallops, and rafts, chained together, and filled, as before, with combustibles. This time, the fire was not applied too soon, and the English fleet was for some time in great danger, but was again saved by the sailors, who, in spite of the storm of missiles, vomited out by cannon, swivels, grenades, shell, and gun and pistol barrels loaded up to the muzzle, grappled with the burning mass, and towed it on shore. It was now the end of July, and Wolfe was no nearer taking Quebec than upon the day when he first landed there. In vain he had tempted Montcalm to attack him. The French general, confident in the strength of his position, refused to leave it. Wolfe therefore determined to attack the camp in front. The plan was a desperate one, for, after leaving troops enough to hold his two camps, he had less than five thousand men to attack a position of commanding strength, where Montcalm could, at an hour's notice, collect twice as many to oppose him. At a spot about a mile above the gorge of the Montmorenci a flat strip of ground, some two hundred yards wide, lay between the river and the foot of the precipices, and, at low tide, the river left a flat of mud, nearly half a mile wide, beyond the dry ground. Along the edge of the high-water mark, the French had built several redoubts. From the river, Wolfe could not see that these redoubts were commanded by the musketry of the intrenchments along the edge of the heights above, which also swept with their fire the whole face of the declivity, which was covered with grass, and was extremely steep. Wolfe hoped that, if he attacked one of the redoubts, the French would come down to defend it, and that a battle might be so brought on; or that, if they did not do so, he might find a spot where the heights could be stormed with some chance of success. At low tide, it was possible to ford the mouth of the Montmorenci, and Wolfe intended that the troops from his camp, on the heights above that river, should cross here, and advance along the strand to cooperate with Monckton's brigade, who were to cross from Point Levi. On the morning of the 31st of July, the Centurion, of 64 guns; and two armed transports, each with 14 guns, stood close in to one of the redoubts, and opened fire upon it; while the English batteries, from the heights of the Montmorenci, opened fire across the chasm upon the French lines. At eleven o'clock, the troops from Point Levi put off in their boats, and moved across the river, as if they intended to make a landing between Beauport and the city. For some hours, Montcalm remained ignorant as to the point on which the English attack was to be made, but became presently convinced that it would be delivered near the Montmorenci, and he massed the whole of his army on that flank of his position. At half-past five o'clock the tide was low, and the English boats dashed forward, and the troops sprang ashore on to the broad tract of mud, left bare by the tide; while, at the same moment, a column 2000 strong moved down from the height towards the ford at the mouth of the Montmorenci. The first to land were thirteen companies of Grenadiers, and a detachment of Royal Americans, who, without waiting for the two regiments of Monckton's brigade, dashed forward against the redoubt at the foot of the hill. The French at once abandoned it, but the Grenadiers had no sooner poured into it, than a storm of bullets rained down upon them, from the troops who lined the heights above. Without a moment's hesitation, the Grenadiers and Americans dashed forward, and strove to climb the steep ascent, swept as it was by a terrific hail of bullets and buckshot from the French and Canadians. Numbers rolled, dead or wounded, to the bottom of the hill, but the others struggled on. But at this moment, the cloud, which had been threatening all day, suddenly opened, and the rain poured down in a torrent. The grassy slopes instantly became so slippery that it was absolutely impossible to climb them, and the fire from above died away, as the wet rendered the firelocks unserviceable. The Grenadiers fell back into the redoubt. Wolfe, who had now arrived upon the spot, saw that it was absolutely impossible to carry the heights under the present conditions, and ordered the troops to retreat. Carrying off many of the wounded with them, they fell back in good order. Those of the Grenadiers and Americans who survived recrossed, in their boats, to the island; the 15th Regiment rowed back to Point Levi; and the 78th Highlanders, who belonged to Monckton's brigade, joined the column from below the Montmorenci, and slowly retired along the flats and across the ford. The loss fell entirely upon the Grenadiers and Americans, and was, in proportion to their number, enormous--four hundred and forty-three, including one colonel, eight captains, twenty-one lieutenants, and three ensigns, being killed, wounded, or missing. The blow to the English was a severe one, and even Wolfe began to despair, and meditated leaving a portion of his troops on Isle aux Coudres and fortifying them there, and sailing home, with the rest, to prepare another expedition in the following year. In the middle of August, he issued a third proclamation to the Canadians, declaring, as they had refused his offers of protection, and had practised the most unchristian barbarity against his troops on all occasions, he could no longer refrain, in justice to himself and his army, in chastising them as they deserved. The barbarities consisted in the frequent scalping and mutilating of sentinels, and men on outpost duty, which were perpetrated alike by the Canadians and Indians. Wolfe's object was twofold: first, to cause the militia to desert, and secondly, to exhaust the colony. Accordingly the rangers, light infantry and Highlanders were sent out, in all directions, to waste the settlements wherever resistance was offered. Farm houses and villages were laid in ashes, although the churches were generally spared. Wolfe's orders were strict that women and children were to be treated with honour. "If any violence is offered to a woman, the offender shall be punished with death." These orders were obeyed, and, except in one instance, none but armed men, in the act of resistance, were killed. Vaudreuil, in his despatches home, loudly denounced these barbarities; but he himself was answerable for atrocities incomparably worse, and on a far larger scale, for he had, for years, sent his savages, red and white, along a frontier of 600 miles, to waste, burn, and murder at will, and these, as he was perfectly aware, spared neither age nor sex. Montcalm was not to be moved from his position by the sight of the smoke of the burning villages. He would not risk the loss of all Canada, for the sake of a few hundred farm houses. Seeing the impossibility of a successful attack below the town, Wolfe determined to attempt operations on a large scale above it. Accordingly, with every fair wind and tide, ships and transports ran the gauntlet of the batteries of Quebec, and, covered by a hot fire from Point Levi, generally succeeded, with more or less damage, in getting above the town. A fleet of flatboats was also sent up, and 1200 troops marched overland, under Brigadier Murray, to embark in them. To meet this danger above the town, Bougainville was sent from the camp at Beaufort with 1500 men. Murray made another descent at Pointe-aux-Trembles, but was repulsed with loss. He tried a second time at another place, but a body of ambushed Canadians poured so heavy a fire into the boats, that he was forced to fall back again with considerable loss. His third attempt was more successful, for he landed at Deschambault, and burned a large building filled with stores, and with all the spare baggage of the officers of the French regular troops. Vaudreuil now regretted having sent the French frigates up the river, and withdrawing their crews to work in the batteries. Had they been kept just above the town, they could have overpowered the English vessels as they passed up. The sailors were now sent up to man their ships again; but Admiral Holmes, who had taken command of the ships of war above Quebec, was already too strong for them, and the sailors were recalled to Quebec. Both armies were suffering. Dysentery and fever had broken out in the English camp, and the number of effective men was greatly reduced. Upon the other hand, the French were suffering from shortness of supplies. The English frigates above the town prevented food being brought down from Montreal in boats, and the difficulties of land carriage were very great. The Canadians deserted in great numbers, and Montcalm's force had been weakened by the despatch of Levis, to assist in checking the advance of Amherst. The latter had captured Ticonderoga and Crown Point. Niagara had also been taken by the English. Amherst, however, fell back again, and Levis was able to rejoin Montcalm. But the greatest misfortune which befell the English was the dangerous illness of Wolfe, who, always suffering from disease, was for a time utterly prostrate. At the end of August, however, he partially recovered, and dictated a letter to his three brigadier generals, asking them to fix upon one of three plans, which he laid before them, for attacking the enemy. The first was that the army should march eight or ten miles up the Montmorenci, ford the river, and fall upon the rear of the enemy. The second was to cross the ford at the mouth of the Montmorenci, and march along the shore, until a spot was found where the heights could be climbed. The third was to make a general attack from the boats upon Beauport. Monckton, Townshend, and Murray met in consultation, and considered all the plans to be hopeless; but they proposed that an attempt should be made to land above the town, and so to place the army between Quebec and its base of supplies, thereby forcing Montcalm to fight or to surrender. The attempt seemed a desperate one, but Wolfe determined to adopt it. He had not much hope of its succeeding, but should it not do so, there was nothing for him but to sail, with his weakened army, back to England. He therefore determined at last to make the attempt, and implored his physician to patch him up, so that he could, in person, take the command. "I know perfectly well that you cannot cure me," he wrote; "but pray make me up, so that I may be without pain for a few days, and able to do my duty. That is all I want." On the 3rd of September, Wolfe took the first steps towards the carrying out of his plans, by evacuating the camp at Montmorenci. Montcalm sent a strong force to attack him, as he was moving; but Monckton at Point Levi saw the movement, and, embarking two battalions in boats, made a feint of landing at Beauport. Montcalm recalled his troops to repulse the threatened attack, and the English were able to draw off from Montmorenci without molestation. On the night of the 4th, a fleet of flatboats passed above the town, with the baggage and stores. On the 5th the infantry marched up by land, and the united force, of some 3600 men, embarked on board the ships of Admiral Holmes. The French thought that the abandonment of Montmorenci, and the embarkation of the troops, was a sign that the English were about to abandon their enterprise, and sail for England. Nevertheless, Montcalm did not relax his vigilance, being ever on the watch, riding from post to post, to see that all was in readiness to repel an attack. In one of his letters at this time, he mentioned that he had not taken off his clothes since the 23d of June. He now reinforced the troops under Bougainville, above Quebec, to 3000 men. He had little fear for the heights near the town, believing them to be inaccessible, and that a hundred men could stop a whole army. This he said, especially, in reference to the one spot which presented at least a possibility of being scaled. Here Captain de Vergor, with a hundred Canadian troops, were posted. The battalion of Guienne had been ordered to encamp close at hand, and the post, which was called Anse du Foulon, was but a mile and a half distant from Quebec. Thus, although hoping that the English would soon depart, the French, knowing the character of Wolfe, made every preparation against a last attack before he started. From the 7th to the 12th, Holmes' fleet sailed up and down the river, threatening a landing, now at one point and now at another, wearing out the French, who were kept night and day on the qui vive, and were exhausted by following the ships up and down, so as to be ready to oppose a landing wherever it might be made. James Walsham's regiment formed part of Monckton's brigade, and his colonel had frequently selected him to command parties who went out to the Canadian villages, as, from the knowledge he had acquired of irregular warfare, he could be trusted not to suffer himself to be surprised by the parties of Canadians or Indians, who were always on the watch to cut off detachments sent out from the British camp. There were still ten men in the regiment who had formed part of his band on the lakes. These were drafted into his company, and, whatever force went out, they always accompanied him. Although James had seen much, and heard more, of the terrible barbarities perpetrated by the Canadians and their Indian allies on the frontier, he lamented much the necessity which compelled Wolfe to order the destruction of Canadian villages; and when engaged on this service, whether in command of the detachment, or as a subaltern if more than one company went out, he himself never superintended the painful work; but, with his ten men, scouted beyond the village, and kept a vigilant lookout against surprise. In this way, he had several skirmishes with the Canadians, but the latter never succeeded in surprising any force to which he was attached. Walsham and his scouts were often sent out with parties from other regiments, and General Monckton was so pleased with his vigilance and activity, that he specially mentioned him to General Wolfe, at the same time telling him of the services he had performed on the lakes, and the very favourable reports which had been made by Johnson, Monro, Lord Howe, and Abercromby, of the work done by the corps which he had organized and commanded. "I wish we had a few more officers trained to this sort of warfare," General Wolfe said. "Send him on board the Sutherland tomorrow. I have some service which he is well fitted to carry out." James accordingly repaired on board the Sutherland, and was conducted to the general's cabin. "General Monckton has spoken to me in high terms of you, Lieutenant Walsham, and he tells me that you have been several times mentioned in despatches, by the generals under whom you served; and you were with Braddock as well as with Johnson, Howe, and Abercromby, and with Monro at the siege of Fort William Henry. How is it that so young an officer should have seen so much service?" James informed him how, having been pressed on board a man of war, he had been discharged, in accordance with orders from home, and, hearing that his friends were going to obtain a commission for him, in a regiment under orders for America, he had thought it best to utilize his time by accompanying General Braddock as a volunteer, in order to learn something of forest warfare; that, after that disastrous affair, he had served with Johnson in a similar capacity, until, on his regiment arriving, he had been selected to drill a company of scouts, and had served with them on the lakes, until the corps was broken up when the regiment sailed for Canada. "In fact, you have seen more of this kind of warfare than any officer in the army," General Wolfe said. "Your special services ought to have been recognized before. I shall have you put in orders, tomorrow, as promoted to the rank of captain. And now, I am about to employ you upon a service which, if you are successful, will give you your brevet majority. "There must be some points at which those precipices can be climbed. I want you to find out where they are. It is a service of great danger. You will go in uniform, otherwise, if caught, you would meet with the fate of a spy; but at the same time, even in uniform you would probably meet with but little mercy, if you fell into the hands of the Canadians or Indians. Would you be willing to undertake such a duty?" "I will try, sir," James said. "Do you wish me to start tonight?" "No," the general replied. "You had better think the matter over, and let me know tomorrow how you had best proceed. It is not an enterprise to be undertaken without thinking it over in every light. You will have to decide whether you will go alone, or take anyone with you; when and how you will land; how you will regain the ships. You will, of course, have carte blanche in all respects." After James had returned on shore, he thought the matter over in every light. He knew that the French had many sentries along the edge of the river, for boats which, at night, went over towards that side of the river, were always challenged and fired upon. The chance of landing undetected, therefore, seemed but slight; nor, even did he land, would he be likely, at night, to discover the paths, which could be little more than tracks up the heights. Had he been able to speak Canadian French, the matter would have been easy enough, as he could have landed higher up the river and, dressed as a Canadian farmer, have made his way through the French lines without suspicion. But he knew nothing of French, and, even had he spoken the language fluently, there was sufficient difference between the Canadian French and the language of the old country, for the first Canadian who spoke to him to have detected the difference. Nor could he pass as an Indian; for, although he had picked up enough of the language to converse with the redskin allies of the English on the lakes, the first Indian who spoke to him would detect the difference; and, indeed, it needed a far more intimate acquaintance with the various tribes, than he possessed, for him to be able to paint and adorn himself so as to deceive the vigilant eyes of the French Indians. Had his two followers, Nat and Jonathan, been with him, they could have painted and dressed him so that he could have passed muster, but, in their absence, he abandoned the idea as out of the question. The prospect certainly did not seem hopeful. After long thought, it seemed to him that the only way which promised even a chance of success would be for him to be taken prisoner by the French soldiers. Once fairly within their lines, half the difficulty was over. He had learned to crawl as noiselessly as an Indian, and he doubted not that he should be able to succeed in getting away from any place of confinement in which they might place him. Then he could follow the top of the heights, and the position of the sentries or of any body of men encamped there would, in itself, be a guide to him as to the existence of paths to the strand below. The first step was the most difficult. How should he manage to get himself taken prisoner? And this was the more difficult, as it was absolutely necessary that he should fall into the hands of French regulars, and not of the Canadians, who would finish the matter at once by killing and scalping him. The next morning, he again went off to the Sutherland. He was in high spirits, for his name had appeared in orders as captain, and as appointed assistant quartermaster general on the headquarter staff. On entering the general's cabin, he thanked him for the promotion. "You have earned it over and over again," the general said. "There are no thanks due to me. Now, have you thought out a plan?" James briefly stated the difficulties which he perceived in the way of any other scheme than that of getting himself taken prisoner by the French, and showed that that was the only plan that seemed to offer even a chance of success. "But you may not be able to escape," Wolfe said. "I may not," James replied, "and in that case, sir, I must of course remain a prisoner until you take Quebec, or I am exchanged. Even then you would be no worse off than you are at present, for I must, of course, be taken prisoner at some point where the French are in force, and where you do not mean to land. My presence there would give them no clue whatever to your real intentions, whereas, were I taken prisoner anywhere along the shore, they would naturally redouble their vigilance, as they would guess that I was looking for some way of ascending the heights." "How do you propose being taken?" Wolfe asked. "My idea was," James replied, "that I should land with a party near Cap Rouge, as if to reconnoitre the French position there. We should, of course, be speedily discovered, and would then retreat to the boats. I should naturally be the last to go, and might well manage to be cut off." "Yes," Wolfe replied, "but you might also, and that far more easily, manage to get shot. I don't think that would do, Captain Walsham. The risks would be twenty to one against your escaping being shot. Can you think of no other plan?" "The only other plan that I can think of," James said, "might involve others being taken prisoners. I might row in towards Cap Rouge in broad daylight, as if to examine the landing place, and should, of course, draw their fire upon the boat. Before starting, I should fire two or three shots into the boat close to the water line, and afterwards plug them up with rags. Then, when their fire became heavy, I should take the plugs out and let the boat fill. As she did so, I could shout that I surrendered, and then we could drift till we neared the shore in the water-logged boat, or swim ashore. I can swim well myself, and should, of course, want four men, who could swim well also, picked out as the crew." "The plan is a dangerous one," Wolfe said, "but less so than the other." "One cannot win a battle without risking life, sir," James said quietly. "Some of us might, of course, be hit, but as we risk our lives whenever we get within range of the enemy, I do not see that that need be considered; at any rate, sir, I am ready to make the attempt, if the plan has your approval." "I tell you frankly, Captain Walsham, that I think your chances of success are absolutely nil. At the same time, there is just a faint possibility that you may get ashore alive, escape from the French, discover a pathway, and bring me the news; and, as the only chance of the expedition being successful now depends upon our discovering such a path, I am not justified in refusing even this faint chance." The general touched a bell which stood on the table before him. "Will you ask the captain to come here," he said to the officer who answered the summons. "Captain Peters," he said when the captain appeared, "I want you to pick out for me four men, upon whom you can thoroughly rely. In the first place they must be good swimmers, in the second place they must be able to hold their tongues, and lastly they must be prepared to pass some months in a French prison. A midshipman, with the same qualifications, will be required to go with them." The captain naturally looked surprised at so unusual a request. "Captain Walsham is going to be taken prisoner by the French," General Wolfe explained, "and the only way it can be done is for a whole boat's crew to be taken with him," and he then detailed the plan which had been arranged. "Of course, you can offer the men any reward you may think fit, and can promise the midshipman early promotion," he concluded. "Very well, general. I have no doubt I can find four men and a midshipman willing to volunteer for the affair, especially as, if you succeed, their imprisonment will be a short one. When will the attempt be made?" "If you can drift up the river as far as Cap Rouge before daylight," James said, in answer to an inquiring look from the general, "we will attempt it tomorrow morning. I should say that the best plan would be for me to appear opposite their camp when day breaks, as if I was trying to obtain a close view of it in the early morning." "The sooner the better," General Wolfe said. "Every day is of importance. But how do you propose to get back again, that is, supposing that everything goes well?" "I propose, general, that I should conceal myself somewhere on the face of the heights. I will spread a handkerchief against a rock or tree, so that it will not be seen either from above or below, but will be visible from the ships in the river. I cannot say, of course, whether it will be near Cap Rouge or Quebec; but, if you will have a sharp lookout kept through a glass, as the ships drift up and down, you are sure to see it, and can let me know that you do so by dipping the ensign. At night I will make my way down to the shore, and if, at midnight exactly, you will send a boat for me, I shall be ready to swim off to her, when they show a lantern as they approach the shore. Of course, I cannot say on what day I may be in a position to show the signal, but at, any rate, if a week passes without your seeing it, you will know that I have failed to make my escape, or that I have been killed after getting out."	{ "id": "17766" }
19	: A Dangerous Expedition.	The details of the proposed expedition being thus arranged, the captain left the cabin with James, and the latter paced to and fro on the quarterdeck, while the captain sent for the boatswain and directed him to pick out four men who could swim well, and who were ready to volunteer for desperate service. While the captain was so engaged, James saw a naval officer staring fixedly at him. He recognized him instantly, though more than four years had elapsed since he had last seen him. He at once stepped across the quarterdeck. "How are you, Lieutenant Horton? It is a long time since we last parted on the Potomac." Horton would have refused the proffered hand, but he had already injured himself very sorely, in the eyes of the squire, by his outburst of ill feeling against James, so he shook hands and said coldly: "Yes, your position has changed since then." "Yes," James said with a laugh, "but that was only a temporary eclipse. That two months before the mast was a sort of interlude for which I am deeply thankful. Had it not been for my getting into that smuggling scrape, I should have been, at the present moment, commencing practice as a doctor, instead of being a captain in his majesty's service." The words were not calculated to improve Horton's temper. What a mistake he had made! Had he interfered on James Walsham's behalf--and a word from him, saying that James was the son of a medical man, and was assuredly mixed up in this smuggling affair only by accident--he would have been released. He had not spoken that word, and the consequence was, he had himself fallen into bad odour with the squire, and James Walsham, instead of drudging away as a country practitioner, was an officer of rank equal to himself, for he, as second lieutenant in the Sutherland, ranked with a captain in the army. Not only this, but whenever he went to Sidmouth he had heard how James had been mentioned in the despatches, and how much he was distinguishing himself. Everything seemed to combine against him. He had hated James Walsham from the day when the latter had thrashed him, and had acted as Aggie's champion against him. He had hated him more, when he found Aggie installed as the squire's heiress, and saw how high James stood in her good graces, and that he had been taken up by the squire. He had hoped that he had gained the advantage over him, when he had come back a naval officer, while James was still a schoolboy, and had kept aloof from the house while he devoted himself to the young heiress. Everything had seemed going on well with his plans, until the very circumstance which, at the time, seemed so opportune, namely, the pressing James as a seaman on board the Thetis, had turned out so disastrous. The letter, in which he had suffered his exultation to appear, had angered the squire, had set Mrs. Walsham and her friend the ex-sergeant against him, and had deeply offended Aggie. It had, too, enabled the squire to take instant measures for procuring James's discharge, and had now placed the latter in a position equal to his own. James, on his part, did not like Richard Horton, but he felt no active animosity against him. He had got the best of it in that first quarrel of theirs, and, although he had certainly felt very sore and angry, at the time Richard was staying at the Hall, and seemed to have taken his place altogether as Aggie's friend, this feeling had long since died away, for he knew, from the letters of Mr. Wilks, that Aggie had no liking whatever for Richard Horton. "You were at Sidmouth in the spring, I heard," he said. "You found my mother looking well, I hope?" "Yes, I was there a fortnight before we sailed," Richard said. "I think she was looking about as usual." For a few minutes, they talked in a stiff and somewhat constrained tone, for Richard could not bring himself to speak cordially to this man, whom he regarded as a dangerous rival. Presently, the captain came up to them. "I have picked four volunteers for your work, Captain Walsham. They were somewhat surprised, at first, to find that they were required for a bout in a French prison; but sailors are always ready for any hare-brained adventure, and they made no objection whatever, when I explained what they would have to do. Next to fighting a Frenchman, there's nothing a sailor likes so much as taking him in. Young Middleton goes in command of the boat. He is a regular young pickle, and is as pleased at the prospect as if a French prison were the most amusing place in the world. He knows, of course, that there will be some considerable danger of his being shot before he is taken prisoner; but I need hardly say that the danger adds to the interest of the scheme. It's a risky business you have undertaken, Captain Walsham, terribly risky; but, if you succeed, you will have saved the expedition from turning out a failure, and we shall all be under obligations to you for the rest of our lives. "Has Captain Walsham told you what he is undertaking, Mr. Horton?" "No, sir." "He is going to get taken prisoner, in the gig, in order that he may, if possible, give the French the slip again, find out some way down that line of cliffs, and so enable the general to get into the heart of the French expedition. It is a grand scheme, but a risky one. "The chances are a hundred to one against you, Captain Walsham." "That is just what the general said," James replied, with a smile. "I don't think, myself, they are more than five to one against me; but, even if they were a thousand, it would be worth trying, for a thousand lives would be cheaply sacrificed to ensure the success of this expedition." "There are not many men who would like to try it," the captain said. "I say honestly I shouldn't, myself. Anything in the nature of duty, whether it's laying your ship alongside a Frenchman of twice her weight of metal, or a boat expedition to cut out a frigate from under the guns of the battery, I should be ready to take my share in; but an expedition like yours, to be carried out alone, in cold blood and in the dark, I should have no stomach for. I don't want to discourage you, and I honour your courage in undertaking it; but I am heartily glad that the general did not propose to me, instead of to you, to undertake it." "You would have done it if he had, sir," James said, smiling, "and so would any officer of this expedition. I consider myself most highly honoured in the general entrusting me with the mission. Besides, you must remember that it is not so strange, to me, as it would be to most men. I have been for four years engaged in forest warfare, scouting at night in the woods, and keeping my ears open to the slightest sound which might tell of a skulking redskin being at hand. My eyes have become so accustomed to darkness, that, although still very far short of those of the Indians, I can see plainly where one unaccustomed to such work would see nothing. I am accustomed to rely upon my own senses, to step noiselessly, or to crawl along on the ground like an Indian. Therefore, you see, to me this enterprise does not present itself in the same light as it naturally would to you." "You may make light of it," the captain said, "but it's a dangerous business, look at it as you will. Well, if you go through it safely, Captain Walsham, you will be the hero of this campaign." Late in the afternoon the tide turned, and the vessels began to drift up the river. The four sailors had, of course, mentioned to their comrades the service upon which they were about to be engaged. The captain had not thought it necessary to enjoin secrecy upon them, for there was no communication with the shore, no fear of the knowledge spreading beyond the ship; besides, the boat had to be damaged, and this alone would tell the sailors, when she was lowered in the water, that she was intended to be captured. A marine was called up to where the captain's gig was hanging from the davits. James pointed out a spot just below the waterline, and the man, standing a yard or two away, fired at it, the ball making a hole through both sides of the boat. Another shot was fired two or three inches higher, and the four holes were then plugged up with oakum. All was now in readiness for the attempt. James dined with Captain Peters, the first lieutenant and four officers of the general's staff being also present, General Wolfe himself being too ill to be at table, and Admiral Holmes having, early in the morning, gone down the river to confer with Admiral Saunders. "I drink good health and a safe return to you, Captain Walsham, for our sake as well as yours. As a general thing, when an officer is chosen for dangerous service, he is an object of envy by all his comrades; but, for once, I do not think anyone on board would care to undertake your mission." "Why, sir, your little midshipman is delighted at going with me. He and I have been chatting the matter over, and he is in the highest glee." "Ah! He has only got the first chance of being shot at," Captain Peters said. "That comes in the line of duty, and I hope there isn't an officer on board a ship but would volunteer, at once, for that service. But your real danger only begins when his ends. "By the way," he asked, as, after dinner was over, he was walking up and down the quarterdeck, talking to James, "have you and Lieutenant Horton met before? I thought you seemed to know each other when I came up, but, since then I have noticed that, while all the other officers of the ship have been chatting with you, he has kept aloof." "We knew each other at home, sir," James said, "but we were never very good friends. Our acquaintanceship commenced, when we were boys, with a fight. I got the best of it, and Horton has never, I think, quite forgiven me." "I don't like the young fellow," Captain Peters said shortly. "I know he was not popular in the Thetis, and they say he showed the white feather out in the East. I wouldn't have had him on board, but the first lord asked me, as a personal favour, to take him. I have had no reason to complain of him, since he joined, but I know that he is no more popular, among my other officers, than he was in the Thetis." "I never heard a word against him, sir," James said earnestly. "His uncle, Mr. Linthorne, has large estates near Sidmouth, and has been the kindest friend to me and mine. At one time, it was thought that Horton would be his heir, but a granddaughter, who had for years been missing, was found; but still Horton will take, I should think, a considerable slice of the property, and it would grieve the squire, terribly, if Horton failed in his career. I think it's only a fault of manners, sir, if I may say so, and certainly I myself know nothing whatever against him." "I don't know," Captain Peters replied thoughtfully. "Just before I sailed, I happened to meet an old friend, and over our dinner I mentioned the names of my officers. He told me he knew this Mr. Linthorne well, and that Horton had gone to sea with him for the first time as a midshipman, and that there was certainly something queer about him as a boy, for Linthorne had specially asked him to keep his eye upon him, and had begged him, frankly, to let him know how he conducted himself. That rather set me against him, you know." "I don't think that was anything," James urged. "I do not much like Horton, but I should not like you to have a false impression of him. It was a mere boyish affair, sir--in fact, it was connected with that fight with me. I don't think he gave a very strictly accurate account of it, and his uncle, who in some matters is very strict, although one of the kindest of men, took the thing up, and sent him away to sea. Horton was certainly punished severely enough, for that stupid business, without its counting against him afterwards." "I like the way you speak up in his defence, Captain Walsham, especially as you frankly say you don't like him, and henceforth I will dismiss the affair from my mind, but I should say that he has never forgiven it, although you may have done so." "That's natural enough," James laughed, "because I came best out of it." To Richard Horton, the news that James Walsham was about to undertake a desperate enterprise, which, if he succeeded in it, would bring him great honour and credit, was bitter in the extreme, and the admiration expressed by the other officers, at his courage in undertaking it, added to his anger and disgust. He walked moodily up and down the quarterdeck all the afternoon, to think the matter over, and at each moment his fury increased. Could he in any way have put a stop to the adventure, he would instantly have done so, but there was no possible way of interfering. The thought that annoyed him most was of the enthusiasm with which the news of the successful termination of the enterprise would be received at Sidmouth. Already, as he knew, Aggie regarded James as a hero, and the squire was almost as proud of his mention in despatches as if he had been his own son; but for this he cared but little. It was Aggie's good opinion Richard Horton desired to gain. James Walsham still thought of her as the girl of twelve he had last seen, but Richard Horton knew her as almost a woman, and, although at first he had resolved to marry her as his uncle's heiress, he now really cared for her for herself. On the visit before James had left home, Richard had felt certain that his cousin liked him; but, since that time, he had not only made no progress, but he felt that he had lost rather than gained ground. The girl was always friendly with him, but it was the cool friendliness of a cousin, and, somehow, Richard instinctively felt James Walsham was the cause. In vain he had angrily told himself that it was absurd to suppose that his cousin could care for this fellow, whom she had only seen as an awkward boy, who had been content to stop away from the house, and never go near her for weeks. Still, though he told himself it was absurd, he knew that it was so. When the conversation happened to turn upon James, she seldom took any part in it; but Richard knew that it was not from indifference as to the subject. There was a soft flush on her cheek, a light in her eyes, which he had never been able to call up; and, many a time, he had ground his teeth in silent rage, when the squire and Mr. Wilks were discussing the news received in James's last letter, and expressing their hopes that, ere long, he would be back from foreign service. Although by no means fond of encountering danger, Richard felt that he would gladly pick an open quarrel with the man he regarded as his rival, and shoot him like a dog--for in those days, duels were matters of everyday occurrence--but there was no possibility of doing this, at the present juncture; and, moreover, he knew that this would be the worst possible way of ridding himself of him; for, were James to fall by his hands, his chances of winning Aggie would be hopelessly extinguished. "No," he said to himself, "that is out of the question; but I will do something. Come what may, he shall never go back to Sidmouth." The squadron drifted up beyond Cap Rouge, and anchored, at the top of the flood, an hour before daybreak. The gig was lowered, and James Walsham, amid many good wishes and hearty farewells from the officers, took his place in her, by the side of the midshipman. "Look out for my signal," he said. "Any time, after today, you may see it." "We will see it if you make it, my boy," said the captain, who had come on deck to see him off. "Don't you fear about that. If you make your signal, you may rely upon it, our boat will be ashore for you that night." Another moment, and the boat pulled away from the side of the ship. "Take it easy, lads," young Middleton said, "only just dip your oars in the water. We have but three miles to row, with the stream, and don't want to be there till the day begins to show." The oars had been muffled, and, noiselessly, the boat dropped down the stream, until she neared Cap Rouge, then they rowed in towards the French shore. The day was just beginning to break, in the east, as they neared the spot where the French camp was situated. It stood high up on the plateau; but there were a small number of tents on the low ground, by the river, as some batteries had been erected here. They were but two hundred yards from the shore when a French sentry challenged. They gave no answer, and the soldier at once fired. "Keep about this distance out," James ordered. "Row quietly. I will stand up, as if I were watching the shore." As soon as the shot was fired, it was answered by shots from other sentries. A minute later, a drum was heard to beat sharply, and then, in the faint light, a number of French soldiers could be seen, running at full speed towards the shore. The shots fell thickly round the boat, and one of the men dropped his oar, as a bullet struck him on the shoulder. "Pull out the plugs," James said. The oakum was pulled out and thrown overboard, and the water rushed in. "Now turn her head from the shore, as if we were trying to escape." So rapidly did the water rush in through the four holes that, in a minute, the gunwale was nearly level with the water. "Turn her over now," James said, and in a moment the boat was upset, and the men clinging to the bottom. A shout of exultation rose from the shore, as the boat was seen to upset, and the firing at once ceased. "Swim towards the shore, and push the boat before you," the young midshipman said. "They won't fire any more now, and we have finished the first part of our business." Pushing the boat before them, the men made their way slowly towards the shore, striking the land half a mile below the point where they had overturned. The French soldiers had followed them down the bank, and surrounded them as they landed. The holes in the boat explained for themselves the cause of the disaster. An officer stepped forward. "You are our prisoners," he said to James. The latter bowed. "It is the fortune of war," he said. "Your men are better shots than I gave them credit for," and he pointed to the holes in the boat. He spoke in English, but the officer guessed his meaning. Some of the Indians and Canadians soon came flocking down, and, with angry gestures, demanded that the prisoners should be shot; but the French officer waived them off, and placed a strong guard of his own men around them, to prevent their being touched by the Indians. The young midshipman spoke French fluently, having been specially selected by the captain for that reason; but it had been agreed, between him and James, that he should not betray his knowledge of the language, as he might, thereby, pick up information which might be useful. They were at once conducted before Bougainville. "Do you speak French?" he asked. James shook his head. The midshipman looked as if he had not understood the question. "It is clear," the French officer said to those standing around him, "that they came in to reconnoitre the landing place, and thought, in the dim light, they could run the gauntlet of our sentries' fire. It was more accurate than they gave them credit for." "The boat was struck twice, you say?" "Yes, general," the officer who conducted them into the tent replied. "Two balls right through her, and one of the men was hit on the shoulder." "The reconnaissance looks as if Wolfe meant to attempt a landing here," Bougainville said. "We must keep a sharp lookout. I will send them on to Quebec, for the general to question them. He will find someone there who speaks their language. I will send, at once, to tell him we have captured them. But I can't very well do so, till we have a convoy going, with regulars to guard it. If they were to go in charge of Canadians, the chances of their arriving alive in Quebec would be slight. "Let the sailors be placed in a tent in your lines, Chateaudun, and place a sentry over them, to see that the Indians don't get at them. The two officers can have the tent that Le Boeuf gave up yesterday. You can put a sentry there, but they can go in and out as they like. There is no fear of their trying to escape; for, if they once went outside the lines of the regulars, the Indians and Canadians would make short work of them." The officer led James and the midshipman to a tent in the staff lines, whose owner had ridden to Quebec, on the previous night, with despatches, and motioned to them that it was to be theirs. He also made signs to them that they could move about as they chose; but significantly warned them, by a gesture, that if they ventured beyond the tents, the Indians would make short work of them. For a time, the prisoners made no attempt to leave the tent, for the Indians stood scowling at a short distance off, and would have entered, had not the sentry on duty prevented them from doing so. "Do not talk too loudly," James said. "It is probable that, in a camp like this, there is someone who understands English. Very likely they are playing the same game with us that we are with them. They pretend there is no one who can speak to us; but, very likely, there may be someone standing outside now, trying to listen to what we say." Then, raising his voice he went on: "What abominable luck I have! Who could have reckoned upon the boat being hit, twice, at that distance? I thought we had fairly succeeded. The general will be in a nice way, when he finds we don't come back." "Yes," Middleton rejoined, "and to think that we are likely to spend the winter in prison, at Quebec, instead of Old England. I am half inclined to try and escape!" "Nonsense!" James replied. "It would be madness to think of such a thing. These Indians can see in the dark, and the moment you put your foot outside the lines of these French regulars, you would be carried off and scalped. No, no, my boy; that would be simply throwing away our lives. There is nothing for it, but to wait quietly, till either Wolfe takes Quebec, or you are exchanged." The prisoners were treated with courtesy by the French officers, and comfortable meals were provided. In the evening, they went outside the tent for a short time, but did not venture to go far, for Indians were still moving about, and the hostile glances, which they threw at the prisoners, were sufficient to indicate what would happen to the latter, if they were caught beyond the protection of the sentry. "Bougainville was right in supposing that prisoners would not be likely to attempt to escape," James said, in a low voice. "The look of those Indians would be quite sufficient to prevent anyone from attempting it, under ordinary circumstances. It is well that my business will take me down the river towards Quebec, while they will make sure that I shall have made up the river, with a view of making my way off to the ships, the next time they go up above Cap Rouge." "It will be risky work getting through them," the midshipman remarked; "but all the same, I wish I was going with you, instead of having to stick here in prison." "It would be running too great a risk of spoiling my chance of success," James said. "I am accustomed to the redskins, and can crawl through them as noiselessly as they could themselves. Besides, one can hide where two could not. I only hope that, when they find I have gone, they won't take it into their heads to revenge my escape upon you." "There is no fear of that," the midshipman said. "I shall be sound asleep in the tent, and when they wake me up, and find you are gone, I shall make a tremendous fuss, and pretend to be most indignant that you have deserted me." The two prisoners had eaten but little of the meals served to them that day, putting the greater portion aside, and hiding it in the straw which served for their beds, in order that James might take with him a supply, for it might be three or four days before he could be taken off by the ships' boats. "I suppose you won't go very far tonight?" the midshipman said, suddenly. "No," James replied. "I shall hide somewhere along the face of the cliff, a mile or so away. They are not likely to look for me down the river at all; but, if they do, they will think I have gone as far as I can away, and the nearer I am to this place, the safer." "Look here," the midshipman said. "I am going strictly to obey orders; but, at the same time, it is just possible that something may turn up that you ought to know, or that might make me want to bolt. Suppose, for instance, I heard them say that they meant to shoot us both in the morning--it's not likely, you know; still, it's always as well to be prepared for whatever might happen--if so, I should crawl out of camp, and make my way along after you. And if so, I shall walk along the edge, and sometimes give two little whistles like this; and, if you hear me, you answer me." "Don't be foolish, Middleton," James said seriously. "You would only risk your life, and mine, by any nonsense of that sort. There can't be any possible reason why you should want to go away. You have undertaken to carry this out, knowing that you would have, perhaps, to remain a prisoner for some time; and having undertaken it, you must keep to the plans laid down." "But I am going to, Captain Walsham. Still, you know, something might turn up." "I don't see that anything possibly could turn up," James insisted; "but, if at any future time you do think of any mad-brained attempt of escaping, you must take off your shoes, and you must put your foot down, each time, as gently as if the ground were covered with nails; for, if you were to tread upon a twig, and there were an Indian within half a mile of you, he would hear it crack. But don't you attempt any such folly. No good could possibly come of it, and you would be sure to fall into the hands of the savages or Canadians; and you know how they treat prisoners." "I know," the boy said; "and I have no wish to have my scalp hanging up in any of their wigwams." It was midnight, before the camp was perfectly still, and then James Walsham quietly loosened one of the pegs of the canvas, at the back of the tent, and, with a warm grasp of the midshipman's hand, crawled out. The lad listened attentively, but he could not hear the slightest sound. The sentinel was striding up and down in front of the tent, humming the air of a French song as he walked. Half an hour passed without the slightest stir, and the midshipman was sure that James was, by this time, safely beyond the enemy's camp. He was just about to compose himself to sleep, when he heard a trampling of feet. The sentry challenged, the password was given, and the party passed on towards the general's tent. It was some thirty yards distant, and the sentry posted there challenged. "I wonder what's up?" the midshipman said to himself; and, lifting the canvas, he put his head out where James had crawled through. The men had halted before the general's tent, and the boy heard the general's voice, from inside the tent, ask sharply, "What is it?" "I regret to disturb you, Monsieur le General; but we have here one of the Canadian pilots, who has swam ashore from the enemy's fleet higher up the river, and who has important news for you." The midshipman at once determined to hear what passed. He had already taken off his shoes; and he now crawled out from the tent, and, moving with extreme caution, made his way round to the back of the general's tent, just as the latter, having thrown on his coat and lighted a candle, unfastened the entrance. The midshipman, determined to see as well as hear what was going on, lifted up the flap a few inches behind, and, as he lay on the ground, peered in. A French officer had just entered, and he was followed by a Canadian, whom the midshipman recognized at once, as being the one who piloted the Sutherland up and down the river. "Where do you come from?" Bougainville asked. "I swam ashore two hours ago from the English ship Sutherland," the Canadian said. "How did you manage to escape?" "I would have swam ashore long ago, but at night I have always been locked up, ever since I was captured, in a cabin below. Tonight the door opened quietly, and someone came in and said: "'Hush! --can you swim?' " 'Like a fish,' I said. " 'Are you ready to try and escape, if I give you the chance?' " 'I should think so,' I replied. " 'Then follow me, but don't make the slightest noise.' "I followed him. We passed along the main deck, where the sailors were all asleep in their hammocks. A lantern was burning here, and I saw, by its light, that my conductor was an officer. He led me along till we entered a cabin--his own, I suppose. " 'Look,' he whispered, 'there is a rope from the porthole down to the water. If you slide quietly down by it, and then let yourself drift till you are well astern of the ship, the sentry on the quarterdeck will not see you. Here is a letter, put it in your cap. If you are fired at, and a boat is lowered to catch you, throw the paper away at once. Will you swear to do that?' "I said I would swear by the Virgin. " 'Very well,' he went on; 'if you get away safely and swim to shore, make your way without a minute's delay to the French camp at Cap Rouge, and give this letter to the general. It is a matter of the most extreme importance.' "This is the letter, general." He handed a small piece of paper, tightly folded up, to Bougainville, who opened it, and read it by the light of the candle. He gave a sharp exclamation. "Quick!" he exclaimed. "Come along to the tent of the prisoners. I am warned that the capture was a ruse, and that the military officer is a spy, whose object here is to discover a landing place. He is to escape the first opportunity." The three men at once ran out from the tent. The instant they did so, the midshipman crawled in under the flap, rushed to the table on which the general had thrown the piece of paper, seized it, and then darted out again, and stole quietly away in the darkness. He had not gone twenty yards, when a volley of angry exclamations told him that the French general had discovered that the tent was empty. The night was a dark one, and to prevent himself from falling over tent ropes, the midshipman threw himself down and crawled along on his hands and knees, but he paused, before he had gone many yards, and listened intently. The general was returning to his tent. "It is no use doing anything tonight," he said. "Even an Indian could not follow the track of a waggon. At daybreak, Major Dorsay, let the redskins know that the prisoners have escaped, and offer a reward of fifty crowns for their recapture, dead or alive--I care not which. Let this good fellow turn in at the guard tent. I will talk to him in the morning. Good night!" The midshipman kept his eyes anxiously on the dim light that could be faintly seen through the tent. If the general missed the paper, he might guess that it had been taken by the fugitives, and might order an instant search of the camp. He gave a sigh of relief, when he saw the light disappear the moment the French officer had entered the tent, and then crawled away through the camp.	{ "id": "17766" }
20	: The Path Down The Heights.	As the midshipman crawled away from the tent of the French general, he adopted the precautions which James had suggested, and felt the ground carefully for twigs or sticks each time he moved. The still-glowing embers of the campfires warned him where the Indians and Canadians were sleeping, and, carefully avoiding these, he made his way up beyond the limits of the camp. There were no sentries posted here, for the French were perfectly safe from attack from that quarter, and, once fairly beyond the camp, the midshipman rose to his feet, and made his way to the edge of the slopes above the Saint Lawrence. He walked for about a mile, and then paused, on the very edge of the sharp declivity, and whistled as agreed upon. A hundred yards further, he repeated the signal. The fourth time he whistled he heard, just below him, the answer, and a minute later James Walsham stood beside him. "You young scamp, what are you doing here?" "It was not my fault, Captain Walsham, it wasn't indeed; but I should have been tomahawked if I had stayed there a moment longer." "What do you mean by 'you would have been tomahawked,'" James asked angrily, for he was convinced that the midshipman had made up his mind, all along, to accompany him. "The pilot of the Sutherland swam ashore, with the news that you had been taken prisoner on purpose, and were really a spy." "But how on earth did he know that?" James asked. "I took care the man was not on deck, when we made the holes in the boat, and he does not understand a word of English, so he could not have overheard what the men said." "I am sorry to say, sir, that it is a case of treachery, and that one of our officers is concerned in it. The man said that an officer released him from his cell, and took him to his cabin, and then lowered him by a rope through the porthole." "Impossible!" James Walsham said. "It sounds impossible, sir; but I am afraid it isn't, for the officer gave him a note to bring to the general, telling him all about it, and that note I have got in my pocket now." The midshipman then related the whole circumstances of his discovery. "It is an extraordinary affair," James said. "However, you are certainly not to blame for making your escape when you did. You could not have got back into your tent till too late; and, even could you have done so, it might have gone hard with you, for of course they would have known that you were, what they would call an accomplice, in the affair." "I will go on if you like, sir," the boy said, "and hide somewhere else, so that if they track me they will not find you." "No, no," James said, "I don't think there's any fear of our being tracked. Indian eyes are sharp; but they can't perform miracles. In the forest it would be hopeless to escape them, but here the grass is short and the ground dry, and, without boots, we cannot have left any tracks that would be followed, especially as bodies of French troops have been marching backwards and forwards along the edge of these heights for the last fortnight. I won't say that it is impossible that they can find us, but it will not be by our tracks. "Now, come down to this bush where I was lying. We will wait there till daylight breaks. It is as far down as I dare go by this light, but, when we can see, we will find a safer place further down." Cautiously they made their way down to a clump of bushes, twenty feet below the edge, and there, lying down, dozed until it became light enough to see the ground. The slope was very steep, but bushes grew here and there upon it, and by means of these, and projecting rocks, they worked their way down some thirty feet lower, and then sat down among some bushes, which screened them from the sight of anyone who might be passing along the edge of the river, while the steep slope effectually hid them from anyone moving along above. "Is there any signature to that letter," James asked presently. The midshipman took the piece of paper out and looked at it. "No, there is no signature," he said; "but I know the handwriting. I have seen it in orders, over and over again." James was silent a few minutes. "I won't ask you who it is, though I fear I know too well. Look here, Middleton, I should like you to tear that letter up, and say no more about it." "No, sir," the boy said, putting the paper in his pocket. "I can't do that. Of course I am under your orders, for this expedition; but this is not an affair in which I consider that I am bound to obey you. This concerns the honour of the officers of my ship, and I should not be doing my duty if I did not, upon my return, place this letter in the hands of the captain. A man who would betray the general's plans to the enemy, would betray the ship, and I should be a traitor, myself, if I did not inform the captain. I am sorry, awfully sorry, that this should happen to an officer of the Sutherland, but it will be for the captain to decide whether he will make it public or not. "There is one thing. If it was to be anyone, I would rather that it was he than anyone else, for there isn't a man on board can abide him. No, sir, I am sorry, but I cannot give up the letter, and, even if you had torn it up when you had it in your hand just now, I should have reported the whole thing to the captain, and say I could swear to the handwriting." James was silent. The boy was right, and was only doing his duty in determining to denounce the act of gross treachery which had been perpetrated. He was deeply grieved, however, to think of the consequences of the discovery, and especially of the blow that it would be, to the squire, to hear that his nephew was a traitor, and indeed a murderer at heart, for, had not his flight taken place before the discovery was made, he would certainly have been executed as a spy. The day passed quietly. That the Indians were searching for him, far and wide, James Walsham had no doubt, and indeed, from their hiding place he saw several parties of redskins moving along on the river bank, carefully examining the ground. "It's lucky we didn't move along there," he said to his companion, "for the ground is so soft that they would assuredly have found our tracks. I expect that they think it possible that we may have been taken off, in a boat, during the night." "I hope they will keep on thinking so," the midshipman said. "Then they will give up looking for us." "They won't do that," James replied; "for they will be sure that they must have seen our tracks, had we passed along that muddy bank. Fortunately, they have no clue to where we really are. We might have gone east, west, or north, and the country is so covered with bush that anything like a regular search is absolutely impossible." "I hope we ain't going to be very long, before we get on board again," the midshipman said, as he munched the small piece of bread James served out to him for his dinner. "The grub won't last more than two days, even at this starvation rate, and that one bottle of water is a mockery. I could finish it all, straight off. Why, we shall be as badly off as if we were adrift at sea, in a boat." "Not quite so bad," James replied. "We can chew the leaves of some of these bushes; besides, people don't die of hunger or thirst in four days, and I hope, before that, to be safely on board." Not until it was perfectly dark did they leave their hiding place, and, by the aid of the bushes, worked their way up to the top of the ascent again. James had impressed on his companion that, on no account, was he to speak above a whisper, that he was to stop whenever he did, and, should he turn off and descend the slope, he was at once to follow his example. The midshipman kept close to his companion, and marvelled how assuredly the latter walked along, for he himself could see nothing. Several times, James stopped and listened. Presently, he turned off to the right, saying "hush!" in the lowest possible tone, and, proceeding a few paces down the slope, noiselessly lay down behind the bush. The midshipman imitated his example, though he wondered why he was so acting, for he could hear nothing. Two or three minutes later he heard a low footfall, and then the sound of men speaking in a low voice, in some strange tongue. He could not see them, but held his breath as they were passing. Not till they had been gone some minutes did James rise, and pursue his course. "Two Indians," he said, "and on the search for us. One was just saying to the other he expected, when they got back to camp, to find that some of the other parties had overtaken us." Another mile further, and they saw the light of several fires ahead. "That is a French battery," James said. "We must make a detour, and get to the other side of it; then I will crawl back, and see if there is any path down to the river." The detour was made, and then, leaving the midshipman in hiding a few paces from the edge, James crawled back. He soon saw, by the fires, that the battery was manned by sailors from the French fleet, and he had little fear of these discovering him. Keeping well below them, he came presently upon a narrow path. Above him, he could hear a French sentry walking. He followed the path down, with the greatest caution, stepping with the most extreme care, to avoid displacing a stone. He found the path was excessively steep and rugged, little more, indeed, than a sheep track. It took him half an hour to reach the bottom, and he found that, in some places, sappers had been lately at work obliterating the path, and that it could scarcely be considered practicable for men hampered with their arms and ammunition. Another half hour's work took him to the top again, and a few minutes later he rejoined his companion. "That won't do," he said. "We must try again. There is a path, but the troops could scarcely climb it if unopposed, and certainly could not do so without making such a noise as would attract the notice of the sentinels above." "That is the battery they call Sillery," the midshipman said. "They have fired at us over and over again from there, as we went up or down the river. There is another about a mile further on. It is called Samos." Upon reaching the Samos battery, James again crept up and reconnoitred. The way down, however, was even more difficult than at Sillery. There was, indeed, no regular path, and so steep was the descent that he doubted whether it would be possible for armed men to climb it. Even he, exceptionally strong and active as he was, and unencumbered with arms, had the greatest difficulty in making his way down and up again and, indeed, could only do so by grasping the trunks of trees and strong bushes. "It can't be done there," he said to the midshipman when he joined him again. "And now we must look for a hiding place. We must have been five or six hours since we started, and the nights are very short. At any rate, we cannot attempt another exploration before morning." "I wish we could explore the inside of a farm house and light upon something to eat and drink," the midshipman said. "It's no use wishing," James replied. "We can't risk anything of that sort and, probably, all the farm houses are full of troops. We have got a little bread left. That will hold us over tomorrow comfortably." "It may hold us," Middleton said; "but it certainly won't hold me comfortably. My idea of comfort, at the present time, would be a round of beef and a gallon of ale." "Ah! You are an epicure," James laughed. "If you had had three or four years of campaigning in the forest, as I have had, you would learn to content yourself on something a good deal less than that." "I might," the boy said; "but I have my doubts about it. There's one comfort. We shall be able to sleep all day tomorrow, and so I sha'n't think about it. As the Indians did not find our tracks yesterday, they are not likely to do so today." They were some time before they found a hiding place, for the descent was so steep that they had to try several times, before they could get down far enough to reach a spot screened by bushes, and hidden from the sight of anyone passing above. At last they did so, and soon lay down to sleep, after partaking of a mouthful of water each, and a tiny piece of bread. They passed the day for the most part in sleep, but the midshipman woke frequently, being now really parched with thirst. Each time, he chewed a few leaves from the bush in which they were lying, but derived but small comfort from it. "It's awful to think of tomorrow," he said, as evening approached. "Even supposing you find a way down tonight, it must be midnight tomorrow before we are taken off." "If I find a way down," James said, "I will, if possible, take you down with me, and then we can take a long drink at the river; but, at any rate, I will take the bottle down with me, and bring it up full for you. The next place to try is the spot where we saw some tents, as we went up the river. There is no battery there, and the tents can only have been pitched there because there was some way down to the water. It cannot be more than half a mile away, for it was not more than a mile from Fort Samos." "Can't I go with you?" the midshipman said. "I will be as quiet as a cat; and, if you find it is a good path, and come up to fetch me down, you see there will be a treble risk of being seen." "Very well," James agreed. "Only mind, if you set a stone rolling, or break a twig, it will cost us both our lives, to say nothing of the failure of our expedition." "I will be as quiet as a mouse. You see if I ain't," the midshipman said confidently; "and I will try not to think, even once, of the water below there, so as not to hurry." Together they crept cautiously along the edge of the ridge, until they came to a clump of some fifteen tents. As they approached they could see, by the light of the fires, that the encampment was one of Canadian troops. James had not intended to move forward until all were asleep, but the men were all chatting round the fires, and it did not seem to him that a sentry had, as yet, been placed on the edge of the descent. He therefore crept forward at once, followed closely by the midshipman, keeping, as far as possible, down beyond the slope of the descent. Presently, he came to a path. He saw at once that this was very different from the others--it was regularly cut, sloping gradually down the face of the sharp descent, and was wide enough for a cart to pass. He at once took his way down it, moving with the greatest caution, lest a sentry should be posted some distance below. It was very dark, for, in many places, the trees met overhead. About halfway down he suddenly came to a stop, for, in front of him, rose a bank breast high. Here, if anywhere, a sentry should have been placed, and, holding his companion's arm, James listened intently for some time. "Mind what you are doing," he said in a whisper. "This is a breastwork and, probably, the path is cut away on the other side. Fortunately, we are so far down the hill now, that there is not much risk of their hearing any slight noise we might make. You stand here, till I find out what's on the other side." James climbed over the breastwork, and cautiously let himself go on the other side. He fell some five or six feet. "Come on," he said in a low voice. "Lower yourself down by your arms. I can reach your legs then." The gap cut in the path was some ten feet across, and six feet deep. When, with some difficulty, they clambered up on the other side, they found the path obstructed by a number of felled trees, forming a thick abattis. They managed to climb the steep hillside, and kept along it until past the obstruction. Then they got on to the path again, and found it unbroken to the bottom. "So far, so good," James said. "Now, do you stop here, while I crawl forward to the water. The first thing to discover is whether they have a sentinel stationed anywhere near the bottom of this path." The time seemed terribly long to Middleton before James returned, though it was really but a few minutes. "All right!" he said, as he approached him. "There is no one here, though I can hear some sentries farther up the river. Now you can come forward, and have a drink. Fortunately, the river is high." After having satisfied their thirst, Middleton asked: "Where are you going now? I don't care how far we have got to march, for, after that drink, I feel ready for anything." "It won't do to hide anywhere near," James said; "for, if the boat which comes to take us off were to be seen, it would put them on their guard, and there would be plenty of sentries about here in future. No, we will keep along at the foot of the precipice till we are about halfway, as far as we can tell, between Samos and Sillery, and then we will climb up, as high as we can get, and show our signal in the morning. But you must be careful as we walk, for, as I told you, there are some sentries posted by the water's edge, higher up." "I will be careful, don't you fear," the midshipman said. "There is not much fear of a fellow, walking about in the dark without boots, not being careful. I knocked my toe against a rock, just now, and it was as much as I could do not to halloa. I will be careful in future, I can tell you." An hour's walking brought them to a spot where the hill was rather less steep than usual. They climbed up, until they gained a spot some fifty feet above the level of the river, and there sat down in a clump of bushes. "As soon as it's daylight, we will choose a spot where we can show a signal, without the risk of it's being seen from below," James said. "We mustn't go to sleep, for we must move directly the dawn commences, else those sentries below might make us out." At daybreak they shifted their position, and gained a spot completely hidden from below, but from which an entire view of the river could be obtained. "Tide will be low in a couple of hours," the midshipman said. "There are the fleet below. They will come up with the first flood, so, in three or four hours, they will be abreast of us. I hope they will make out our signal." "I have no fear of that," James replied. "They are sure to keep a sharp lookout for it." Presently the tide grew slacker, and, half an hour later, the ships were seen to hoist their sails, and soon began to drop slowly up the river. When they approached, James fastened his handkerchief against the trunk of a tree, well open to view from the river, and then stood with his eyes fixed on the approaching ships. Just as the Sutherland came abreast of the spot where they were standing, the ensign was dipped. James at once removed his handkerchief. "Now," he said, "Middleton, you can turn in and take a sleep. At twelve o'clock tonight there will be a boat below for us." Two or three hours after darkness had fallen, James and his companion made their way down the slope, and crawled out to the water's edge. There was no sentry within hearing, and they sat down, by the edge of the river, until suddenly a light gleamed for an instant, low down on the water, two or three hundred yards from the shore. They at once stepped into the river, and, wading out for some little distance, struck out towards where they had seen the light. A few minutes' swimming, and they saw something dark ahead. Another few strokes took them alongside, and they were hauled into the boat. The slight noise attracted the attention of a sentry, some little distance along the shore, and his qui vive came sharply across the water, followed a few seconds later by the flash of his gun. The crew now bent to their oars, and, a quarter of an hour later, the boat was alongside the Sutherland, which, with her consorts, was slowly drifting up the stream. General Wolfe and the admiral were on deck, and anxiously waiting the arrival of the boat. The former, in his anxiety, hailed the boat as it approached. "Is Captain James Walsham on board?" "Yes, sir," James replied. "Bravo, bravo!" the general cried, delighted. "Bravo!" he repeated, seizing James Walsham's hand as he stepped on deck. "I did not expect to see you again, Captain Walsham, at least until we took Quebec. Now, come to my cabin at once and tell me all about it. But perhaps you are hungry." "I am rather hungry, general," James said quietly. "We have had nothing to eat but a crust of bread for three days." "We? Who are we?" the general asked quickly. "Mr. Middleton and myself, sir. He escaped after I had left, and joined me." "The galley fires are out," the admiral said, "but you shall have some cold meat in my cabin, instantly." James was at once led to the cabin, where, in two or three minutes, food and a bottle of wine were placed before him. The general would not allow him to speak a word, till his hunger was satisfied. Then, when he saw him lay down his knife and fork, he said: "Now, Captain Walsham, in the first place, have you succeeded--have you found a practicable path down to the river?" "I have found a path, sir. It is cut in one place, and blocked with felled trees, but the obstacles can be passed. There are some Canadians, in tents, near the top of the path, but they seem to keep a very careless watch, and no sentry is placed at the bottom, or on the edge of the river anywhere near." "Admirable, admirable!" Wolfe exclaimed. "At last there is a chance of our outreaching Montcalm. And you were not seen examining the path? Nothing occurred to excite their suspicion, and lead them to keep a better lookout in future?" "No, sir," James replied. "They have had no suspicion of my presence anywhere near. The spot where I was taken off was two miles higher. I moved away in order that, if we were seen swimming off to the boat, no suspicion should occur that we had been reconnoitring the pathway." "That is right," the general said. "Now, tell me the whole story of what you have been doing, in your own way." James related his adventures, up to the time when he was joined by the midshipman. "But what made Mr. Middleton escape?" the admiral asked. "I thought that his instructions were precise, that he was to permit himself to be taken prisoner, and was to remain quietly in Quebec, until we could either exchange him or take the place." "That was how he understood his instructions, sir," James said; "but I would rather that you should question him, yourself, as to his reasons for escaping. I may say they appear to me to be perfectly valid, as an occurrence took place upon which it was impossible for Captain Peters to calculate, when he gave them." James then finished the report of his proceedings, and General Wolfe expressed his great satisfaction at the result. "I will put you in orders, tomorrow, for your brevet-majority," he said; "and never was the rank more honourably earned." The admiral rang a hand bell. "Send Mr. Middleton to me. Where is he?" "He is having supper in Captain Peters' cabin." "Ask Captain Peters if he will be good enough to come in with him." A minute later Captain Peters entered, followed by the midshipman. "I suppose, Peters, you have been asking young Middleton the reason why he did not carry out his instructions?" "I have, admiral," Captain Peters said gravely, "and I was only waiting until you were disengaged to report the circumstance to you. He had better tell you, sir, his own way." Captain Peters then took a seat at the table, while the midshipman related his story, in nearly the same words in which he had told it to James. When he told of the account the Canadian pilot had given of his escape, the admiral exclaimed: "But it seems altogether incredible. That some one has unbolted the man's cabin from the outside seems manifest, and it is clear that either gross treachery, or gross carelessness, enabled him to get free. I own that, although the sergeant of marines declares positively that he fastened the bolts, I think that he could not have done so, for treachery seems almost out of the question. That an officer should have done this seems impossible; and yet, what the man says about the cabin, and being let out by a rope, would seem to show that it must have been an officer." "I am sorry to say, sir," Middleton said, "that the man gave proofs of the truth of what he was saying. The officer, he said, gave him a paper, which I heard and saw the general reading aloud. It was a warning that Captain Walsham had purposely allowed himself to be captured, and that he was, in fact, a spy. The French officer, in his haste, laid down the paper on the table when he rushed out, and I had just time to creep under the canvas, seize it, and make off with it. Here it is, sir. I have showed it to Captain Peters." The admiral took the paper and read it, and handed it, without a word, to General Wolfe. "That is proof conclusive," he said. "Peters, do you know the handwriting?" "Yes," Captain Peters said gravely. "I recognized it at once, as did Mr. Middleton. It is the handwriting of Lieutenant Horton." "But what on earth could be the motive of this unhappy young man?" the admiral asked. "I imagine, sir, from what I saw on the evening before Captain Walsham set out, and, indeed, from what Captain Walsham said when I questioned him, that it was a case of private enmity against Captain Walsham." "Is this so, Captain Walsham?" General Wolfe asked. "I have no enmity against him, sir," James said, "though I own that his manner impressed me with the idea that he regarded me as an enemy. The fact is, we lived near each other as boys, and we had a fight. I got the best of it. He gave an account of the affair, which was not exactly correct, to his uncle, Mr. Linthorne, a wealthy landowner and a magistrate. The latter had me up at the justice room; but I brought forward witnesses, who gave their account of the affair. Mr. Linthorne considered that his nephew--whom he had at that time regarded as his heir--had not given a correct account, and was so angry that he sent him to sea. "I would say, sir," he said earnestly, "that, were it possible, I should have wished this unhappy affair to be passed over." "Impossible!" the admiral and general said together. "I fear it is impossible now, sir," James said gravely; "but it might have been stopped before." "Captain Walsham wanted me to tear up the note," the midshipman put in; "but, though I was awfully sorry such a thing should happen to an officer of the Sutherland, I was obliged to refuse to do so, as I thought it was my duty to hand the note to you." "Certainly it was, Mr. Middleton," the admiral said. "There can be no question about that." "I wonder that you even suggested such a thing, Captain Walsham," the general remarked. "This was not a private affair. The whole success of the enterprise was jeopardized." "It was, sir," James said quietly; "but you must remember that, at the time I asked Mr. Middleton to tear up the note, it had ceased to be jeopardized, for I had got fairly away. I am under great obligations to Mr. Linthorne, and would do much to save him pain. I regarded this act, not as one of treason against the country, but as one of personal enmity to myself, and I am sure that Lieutenant Horton, himself, did not think of the harm that his letter might do to the cause, but was blinded by his passion against me." "Your conduct does credit to your heart, Captain Walsham, if not to your head," General Wolfe said. The admiral rang the bell. "Tell Lieutenant Horton that I wish to speak to him, and order a corporal, with a file of marines, to be at the door." The messenger found Lieutenant Horton pacing the quarterdeck with hurried steps. On the receipt of the message, instead of going directly to the admiral's cabin, he ran down below, caught something from a shelf by his berth, placed it in the breast of his coat, and then went to the admiral's cabin. The corporal, with the two marines, had already taken his station there. The young officer drew a deep breath, and entered. A deadly fear had seized him, from the moment he saw the signal of James Walsham, although it seemed impossible to him that his treachery could have been discovered. The sudden summons at this hour of the night confirmed his fears, and it was with a face almost as pale as death that he entered the cabin. "Lieutenant Horton," the admiral said, "you are accused of having assisted in the escape of the pilot, who was our prisoner on board this ship. You are further accused of releasing him with the special purpose that the plans which General Wolfe had laid, to obtain information, might be thwarted." "Who accuses me?" Richard Horton asked. "Captain Walsham is my enemy. He has for years intrigued against me, and sought to do me harm. He was the companion of smugglers, and was captured by the Thetis, and had the choice of being sent to prison, and tried for his share in the killing of some of the coast guards, or of going before the mast. I was a lieutenant in the Thetis at the time, and I suppose, because I did not then interfere on his behalf, he has now trumped up this accusation against me, an accusation I defy him to prove." "You are mistaken, Lieutenant Horton," the admiral said. "Captain Walsham is not your accuser. Nay, more, he has himself committed a grave dereliction of duty in trying to screen you, and by endeavouring to destroy the principal evidence against you. Mr. Middleton overheard a conversation between the Canadian pilot and the French general, and the former described how he had been liberated by an English officer, who assisted him to escape by a rope from the porthole in his cabin." "I do not see that that is any evidence against me," Richard Horton said. "In the first place, the man may have been lying. In the second place, unless he mentioned my name, why am I suspected more than any other officer? And, even if he did mention my name, my word is surely as good as that of a Canadian prisoner. It is probable that the man was released by one of the crew--some man, perhaps, who owed me a grudge--who told him to say that it was I who freed him, in hopes that some day this outrageous story might get about." "Your suggestions are plausible, Mr. Horton," the admiral said coldly. "Unfortunately, it is not on the word of this Canadian that we have to depend. "There, sir," he said, holding out the letter; "there is the chief witness against you. Captain Peters instantly recognized your handwriting, as Mr. Middleton had done before him." Richard Horton stood gazing speechlessly at the letter. So confounded was he, by the unexpected production of this fatal missive, that he was unable to utter a single word of explanation or excuse. "Lay your sword on the table, sir," the admiral said, "and retire to your cabin, where you will remain, under close arrest, till a court martial can be assembled." Richard Horton unbuckled his sword and laid it on the table, and left the cabin without a word. "It would have been better to send a guard with him," Captain Peters said; "he might jump overboard, or blow his brains out." "Quite so, Peters," the admiral said. "The very thing that was in my mind, when I told him to retire to his cabin--the very best thing he could do, for himself and for the service. A nice scandal it would be, to have to try and hang a naval officer for treachery. "I am sure you agree with me, general?" "Thoroughly," the general said. "Let him blow his brains out, or desert; but you had best keep a sharp lookout that he does not desert at present. After we have once effected our landing, I should say keep as careless a watch over him as possible; but don't let him go before. It is bad enough that the French know that Captain Walsham went ashore for the purpose of discovering a landing place; but it would be worse were they to become aware that he has rejoined the ships, and that he was taken off by a boat within a couple of miles of the spot where we mean to land." The admiral was right. Richard Horton had, when summoned to the cabin, hastily placed a pistol in his bosom, with the intention of blowing out his brains, should he find that the discovery he dreaded had been made. Had the marines posted outside the cabin been ordered to accompany him, he would at once have carried his purpose into execution; but, finding himself free, he walked to his cabin, still determined to blow out his brains before morning; but, the impulse once past, he could not summon up resolution to carry his resolve into effect. He would do it, he said to himself, before the court martial came on. That would be time enough. This was the decision he arrived at when the morning dawned upon him, lying despairing in his cot.	{ "id": "17766" }
21	: The Capture Of Quebec.	On the day on which he received James' report, Wolfe issued his orders for the attack. Colonel Burton, at Point Levi, was to bring up every man who could be spared, to assist in the enterprise, and that officer accordingly marched to the spot indicated for embarkation, after nightfall, with 1200 men. As night approached, the main fleet, under Admiral Saunders, below Quebec, ranged itself opposite Beauport, and opened a tremendous cannonade, while the boats were lowered, and filled with sailors and marines. Montcalm, believing that the movements of the English above the town were only a feint, and that their main body was still below it, massed his troops in front of Beauport, to repel the expected landing. To Colonel Howe, of the Light Infantry, was given the honour of leading the little party, who were to suddenly attack Vergor's camp, at the head of the path. James Walsham, knowing the way, was to accompany him as second in command. Twenty-four picked men volunteered to follow them. Thirty large troop boats, and some boats belonging to the ships, were in readiness, and 1700 men took their places in them. The tide was still flowing, and, the better to deceive the French, the vessels and boats were allowed to drift upwards for a little distance, as if to attempt to effect a landing above Cap Rouge. Wolfe had, that day, gained some intelligence which would assist him to deceive the enemy, for he learned that a number of boats, laden with provisions from Quebec, were coming down with the tide. Wolfe was on board the Sutherland. He was somewhat stronger than he had been for some days, but felt a presentiment that he would die in the approaching battle. About two o'clock, the tide began to ebb, and two lanterns--the signal for the troops to put off--were shown in the rigging of the Sutherland. Fortune favoured the English. Bougainville had watched the vessels, until he saw them begin to drift down again with the stream, and, thinking that they would return again with the flood, as they had done for the last seven days, allowed his weary troops to retire to their camp. The battalion of Guienne, instead of encamping near the heights, had remained on the Saint Charles; and Vergor, an incapable and cowardly officer, had gone quietly to bed, and had allowed a number of the Canadians under him to go away to their village, to assist in getting in the harvest. For two hours, the English boats drifted down with the stream. As they neared their destination, they suddenly were challenged by a French sentry. An officer, who spoke the language replied, "France." "A quel regiment?" "De la reine," the officer replied, knowing that a part of that regiment was with Bougainville. The sentry, believing that they were the expected provision boats, allowed them to pass on. A few hundred yards further, another sentry challenged them. The same officer replied in French, "Provision boats. Don't make a noise; the English will hear us." A few minutes later, the boats rowed up to the strand, at the foot of the heights. Vergor had placed no sentry on the shore, and the troops landed unchallenged. Guided by James Walsham, Colonel Howe, with his twenty-four volunteers, led the way. As silently as they could, they moved up the pathway, until they gained the top, and saw before them the outline of the tents. They went at them with a rush. Vergor leaped from his bed, and tried to run off, but was shot in the heel and captured. His men, taken by surprise, made little resistance. One or two were caught, but the rest fled. The main body of the troops were waiting, for the most part, in the boats by the edge of the bank. Not a word was spoken as the men listened, almost breathlessly, for a sound which would tell them whether the enterprise had succeeded. Suddenly the stillness was broken by the musketry on the top of the heights, followed by a loud British cheer. Then all leapt from the boats, and each man, with his musket slung at his back, scaled the rocks as best he might. The narrow path had been made impassable by trenches and abattis, but the obstructions were soon cleared away, and the stream of soldiers poured steadily up. As soon as a sufficient number had gained the plateau, strong parties were sent off to seize the batteries at Samos and Sillery, which had just opened fire upon the boats and ships. This was easily done, and the English footing on the plateau was assured. As fast as the boats were emptied of the men, they rowed back to the ships to fetch more, and the whole force was soon on shore. The day began to break a few minutes after the advanced troops had gained the heights, and, before it was fairly daylight, all the first party were drawn up in line, ready to resist attack. But no enemy was in sight. A body of Canadians, who had sallied from the town on hearing the firing, and moved along the strand towards the landing place, had been quickly driven back, and, for the present, no other sign of the enemy was to be seen. Wolfe reconnoitred the ground, and found a suitable place for a battle, at a spot known as the Plains of Abraham, from a pilot of that name who had owned a piece of land there, in the early days of the colony. It was a tract of grass, with some cornfields here and there, and studded by clumps of bushes. On the south, it was bounded by the steep fall down to the Saint Lawrence; on the north, it sloped gradually down to the Saint Charles. Wolfe led his troops to this spot and formed them in line, across the plateau and facing the city. The right wing rested on the edge of the height, along the Saint Lawrence, but the left did not extend far enough to reach the slopes down to the Saint Charles. To prevent being outflanked on this wing, Brigadier Townshend was stationed here, with two battalions, drawn up at right angles to the rest, and facing the Saint Charles. Webb's regiment formed the reserve, the 3d battalion of Royal Americans were left to guard the landing, and Howe's light infantry occupied a wood, far in the rear of the force, to check Bougainville should he approach from that direction. Wolfe, with his three brigadiers, commanded the main body, which, when all the troops had arrived, numbered less than three thousand five hundred men. Quebec was less than a mile distant from the spot where the troops were posted, in order of battle, but an intervening ridge hid it from the sight of the troops. At six o'clock, the white uniforms of the battalion of Guienne, which had marched up in hot haste from their camp on the Saint Charles, made their appearance on the ridge, and halted there, awaiting reinforcements. Shortly afterwards, there was an outbreak of hot firing in the rear, where the light troops, under Colonel Howe, repulsed a detachment of Bougainville's command, which came up and attacked them. Montcalm had been on the alert all night. The guns of Saunders' fleet thundered unceasingly, opposite Beauport, and its boats hovered near the shore, threatening a landing. All night, the French troops remained in their intrenchments. Accompanied by the Chevalier Johnston, he remained all night in anxious expectation. He felt that the critical moment had come, but could not tell from which direction the blow was to arrive. He had sent an officer to Vaudreuil, whose quarters were near Quebec, begging him to send word instantly, should anything occur above the town. Just at daybreak, he heard the sound of cannon from that direction. This was the battery at Samos, opening fire upon the English ships. But no word came from Vaudreuil and, about six o'clock, Montcalm mounted and, accompanied by Johnston, rode towards the town. As he approached the bridge across the Saint Charles, the country behind the town opened to his view, and he presently saw the red line of British troops, drawn up on the heights above the river, two miles away. Instantly, he sent Johnston off, at full gallop, to bring up the troops from the centre and left. Vaudreuil had already ordered up those on the right. Montcalm rode up to Vaudreuil's quarters, and, after a few words with the governor, galloped over the bridge of the Saint Charles towards the seat of danger. It must have been a bitter moment for him. The fruits of his long care and watching were, in a moment, snatched away, and, just when he hoped that the enemy, foiled and exhausted, were about to return to England, he found that they had surmounted the obstacles he had deemed impregnable, and were calmly awaiting him on a fair field of battle. One who saw him said that he rode towards the field, with a fixed look, uttering not a word. The army followed in hot haste, crossed the Saint Charles, passed through Quebec, and hurried on to the ridge, where the battalion of Guienne had taken up its position. Nothing could have been stronger than the contrast which the two armies afforded. On the one side was the red English line, quiet and silent, save that the war pipes of the Highlanders blew loud and shrilly; on the other were the white-coated battalions of the regular army of France, the blue-clad Canadians, the bands of Indians in their war paint and feathers, all hurried and excited by their rapid march, and by the danger which had so unexpectedly burst upon them. Now the evils of a divided command were apparent. Vaudreuil countermanded Montcalm's orders for the advance of the left of the army, as he feared that the English might make a descent upon Beauport. Nor was the garrison of Quebec available, for Ramesay, its commander, was under the orders of Vaudreuil and, when Montcalm sent to him for twenty-five field guns from one of its batteries, he only sent three, saying that he wanted the rest for his own defence. Montcalm held a council of war with all his officers, and determined to attack at once. For this he has been blamed. That he must have fought was certain, for the English, in the position which they occupied, cut him off from the base of his supplies; but he might have waited for a few hours, and in that time he could have sent messengers, and brought up the force of Bougainville, which could have marched, by a circuitous route, and have joined him without coming in contact with the English. Upon the other hand, Montcalm had every reason to believe that the thirty-five hundred men he saw before him formed a portion, only, of the English army, that the rest were still on board the fleet opposite Beauport, and that a delay would bring larger reinforcements to Wolfe than he could himself receive. He was, as we know, mistaken, but his reasoning was sound, and he had, all along, believed the English army to be far more numerous than it really was. He was doubtless influenced by the fact that his troops were full of ardour, and that any delay would greatly dispirit the Canadians and Indians. He therefore determined to attack at once. The three field pieces, sent by Ramesay, opened fire upon the English line with canister, while fifteen hundred Canadians and Indians crept up among the bushes and knolls, and through the cornfield, and opened a heavy fire. Wolfe threw out skirmishers in front of the line, to keep these assailants in check, and ordered the rest of the troops to lie down to avoid the fire. On the British left, the attack was most galling. Bands of the sharpshooters got among the thickets, just below the edge of the declivity down to the Saint Charles, and from these, and from several houses scattered there, they killed and wounded a considerable number of Townshend's men. Howe was called up, with his light troops, from the rear; and he, and the two flank battalions of Townshend, dashed at the thickets, and, after some sharp fighting, partially cleared them, and took and burned some of the houses. Towards ten o'clock, the French advanced to the attack. Their centre was formed of regular troops, only, with regulars and Canadian battalions on either flank. Two field pieces which, with enormous labour, the English had dragged up the path from the landing place, at once opened fire with grape upon the French line. The advance was badly conducted. The French regulars marched steadily on, but the Canadians, firing as they advanced, threw themselves on the ground to reload, and this broke the regularity of the line. The English advanced some little distance, to meet their foes, and then halted. Not a shot was fired until the French were within forty paces, and then, at the word of command, a volley of musketry crashed out along the whole length of the line. So regularly was the volley given, that the French officers afterwards said that it sounded like a single cannon shot. Another volley followed, and then the continuous roar of independent firing. When the smoke cleared off a little, its effects could be seen. The French had halted where they stood, and, among them, the dead and wounded were thickly strewn. All order and regularity had been lost under that terrible fire, and, in three minutes, the line of advancing soldiers was broken up into a disorderly shouting mob. Then Wolfe gave the order to charge, and the British cheer, mingled with the wild yell of the Highlanders, rose loud and fierce. The English regiments advanced with levelled bayonets. The Highlanders drew their broadswords and rushed headlong forward. The charge was decisive. The French were swept helplessly before it, and the battle was at an end, save that the scattered parties of Canadians and Indians kept up, for some time, a fire from the bushes and cornfields. Their fire was heaviest on the British right, where Wolfe himself led the charge, at the head of the Louisbourg Grenadiers. A shot shattered his wrist. He wrapped his handkerchief around it and kept on. Another shot struck him, but he still advanced. When a third pierced his breast, he staggered and sat down. Two or three officers and men carried him to the rear, and then laid him down, and asked if they should send for a surgeon. "There is no need," he said. "It is all over with me." A moment later, one of those standing by him cried out: "They run, see how they run!" "Who run?" Wolfe asked. "The enemy, sir. They give way everywhere." "Go, one of you, to Colonel Burton," Wolfe said. "Tell him to march Webb's regiment down to the Charles River, to cut off their retreat from the bridge;" then, turning on his side, he said: "Now, God be praised, I will die in peace!" and, a few minutes later, he expired. Montcalm, still on horseback, was borne by the tide of fugitives towards the town. As he neared the gate, a shot passed through his body. It needed some hard work before the Canadians, who fought bravely, could be cleared out from the thickets. The French troops did not rally from their disorder till they had crossed the Saint Charles. The Canadians retired in better order. Decisive as the victory was, the English, for the moment, were in no condition to follow it up. While on the French side Montcalm was dying, and his second in command was mortally wounded; on the English, Wolfe was dead and Monckton, second in rank, badly wounded, and the command had fallen upon Townshend, at the moment when the enemy were in full flight. Knowing that the French could cut the bridge of boats across the Saint Charles, and so stop his pursuit, and that Bougainville was close at hand, he halted his troops, and set them to work to intrench themselves on the field of battle. Their loss had been six hundred and sixty-four, of all ranks, killed and wounded; while the French loss was estimated at about double that number. In point of numbers engaged, and in the total loss on both sides, the fight on the Plains of Abraham does not deserve to rank as a great battle, but its results were of the most extreme importance, for the victory transferred Canada from France to England. Vaudreuil, after joining his force with that of Bougainville, would have still vastly outnumbered the English, and could, by taking up a fresh position in their rear, have rendered himself impregnable, until the winter forced the English to retire; while the latter had no means of investing or besieging Quebec. But his weakness was now as great as his presumption had been before, and, on the evening of the battle, he abandoned the lines of Beauport, and, leaving all his tents and stores behind him, retreated hastily, or rather it may be said fled, for as the Chevalier Johnston said of it: "It was not a retreat, but an abominable flight, with such disorder and confusion that, had the English known it, three hundred men sent after us would have been sufficient to have cut all our army to pieces. The soldiers were all mixed, scattered, dispersed, and running as hard as they could, as if the English army were at their heels." The flight was continued, until they reached the impregnable position of Jacques Cartier on the brink of the Saint Lawrence, thirty miles from the scene of action. Montcalm died in Quebec the next morning. Levis soon arrived at Jacques Cartier from Montreal, and took the command, and at once attempted to restore order, and persuaded Vaudreuil to march back to join Bougainville, who had remained firmly with his command, at Cap Rouge, while the horde of fugitives swept by him. Vaudreuil, before leaving, had given orders to Ramesay to surrender, if Quebec was threatened by assault, and Levis, on his march to its relief, was met by the news that, on the morning of the 18th, Ramesay had surrendered. The garrison was utterly dispirited, and unwilling to fight. The officers were even more anxious to surrender than the men, and, on the fleet approaching the walls Ramesay obeyed Vaudreuil's orders, and surrendered. Townshend granted favourable conditions, for he knew that Levis was approaching, and that his position was dangerous in the extreme. He therefore agreed that the troops and sailors of the garrison should march out from the place, with the honours of war, and were to be carried to France, and that the inhabitants should have protection in person and property, and free exercise of religion. The day after the capture of Quebec, James Walsham returned on board ship. The thought of Richard Horton, awaiting the court martial, which would assuredly award him the sentence of death for his treachery, was constantly in his mind. He remembered the conversation between Captain Peters and the admiral, and General Wolfe's words: "I should say, keep as careless a watch over him as possible," and he determined, if possible, to aid him in making his escape, confident that, in the general exultation at the success of the enterprise, no one would trouble greatly about the matter, and that the admiral would be only too pleased that an inquiry should be avoided, which could but end in the disgrace and execution of a naval officer. James was relieved when, on his arrival, he found that Richard Horton was still in confinement, for he feared that he might have carried out the other alternative spoken of by the admiral, and might have committed suicide. "Captain Peters," he said, going up to that officer, "I should be obliged if you would give me an order to see Lieutenant Horton." "Can't do it, my lad. The admiral's orders are precise. Nobody is to be admitted to see him, without an order signed by himself." James accordingly sought the admiral's cabin. "What do you want to see him for, eh?" the admiral asked. James hesitated. He would not tell an untruth in the matter, and yet he could think of no excuse which could answer, without doing so. "I want to see him, sir, to have some conversation with him." "Ah!" the admiral said, looking at him keenly. "Conversation, eh! You are not going to take him a pistol, or poison, or anything of that sort, to help him to put an end to his wretched existence?" "No, indeed, sir," James said warmly. "Humph! You are not thinking, I hope," he said, with a twinkle of the eye, "of helping him to escape?" James was silent. "Well, well," the admiral said hastily, "that's not a fair question to ask. However, I will tell you in confidence that, if he should escape, which is the most unlikely thing in the world, you know, no one would be particularly sorry, and there would be no great fuss made about it. Everyone in the navy here would feel it cast a slur upon the service if, at a time like this, a naval officer were tried and shot for treachery. However, if it must be it must. "Here is an order for you to see him. If it was anyone else, I might have my doubts about granting it, but as you are the man against whom he played this scurvy trick, I feel safe in doing so. "There you are, my lad. Give me your hand. You are a fine fellow, Major Walsham, a very fine fellow." Immediately upon entering Quebec, James had purchased a large turn-screw, some ten yards of fine but strong rope, and three or four bladders. When he procured the order, he went to his cabin, took off his coat, wound the rope round his body, and then, putting on his coat, placed the flattened bladders under it and buttoned it up, slipping the turn-screw up his sleeve, and then proceeded to the prisoner's cabin. The sentry at once admitted him, on producing the admiral's order. Richard Horton was lying down on his berth, and started with surprise as his visitor entered. "I am glad you have come to see me, James Walsham, for I have been wishing to speak to you, and I thought you would come. I have been thinking much for the last two days. I know that it is all up with me. The proofs are too strong, and I will not face a court martial, for I have the means--I know I may tell you safely--of avoiding it. The hour that brings me news that the court is ordered to assemble, I cease to live. "When a man is at that point, he sees things more clearly, perhaps, than he did before. I know that I have wronged you, and, when the admiral said that you had done all in your power to shield me, I felt more humiliated than I did when that fatal letter was produced. I know what you have come for--to tell me that you bear me no malice. You are a fine fellow, Walsham, and deserve all your good fortune, just as I deserve what has befallen me. I think, if it had not been for the squire taking me up, I should never have come to this, but might have grown up a decent fellow. But my head was turned. I thought I was going to be a great man, and this is what has come of it." "I have come partly, as you suppose, to tell you that I bear you no malice, Richard Horton. I, too, have thought matters over, and understand your feeling against me. That first unfortunate quarrel, and its unfortunate result, set you against me, and, perhaps, I never did as much as I might to turn your feelings the other way. However, we will not talk more of that. All that is past and over. I come to you, now, as the nephew of the man who has done so much for me. I have brought with me the means of aiding your escape." "Of aiding my escape, Walsham! You must be mad! I am too securely fastened here; and, even were it not so, I would not accept a kindness which would cost you your commission, were it known." "As to the second reason, you may make your mind easy. From words which dropped, from the admiral, I am sure that everyone will be so glad, at your escape, that no very strict inquiry will be made. In the next place, your fastenings are not so very secure. The porthole is screwed down as usual." "Yes," Horton said; "but, in addition, there are a dozen strong screws placed round it." "Here is a long turn-screw which will take them out as quickly as the carpenter put them in," James said, producing the tool; "and here," and he opened his coat, "is a rope for lowering yourself down into the water." "You are very good, James," Horton said quietly; "but it is no use. I can't swim." "I know you could not, as a boy," James replied, "and I thought it likely enough that you have not learned since; but I think, with these, you may make a shift to get ashore," and he produced four bladders and some strong lashing. "If you blow these out, fasten the necks tightly, and then lash them round you, you can't sink. The drift of the tide will take you not very far from the point below, and, if you do your best to strike out towards the shore, I have no doubt you will be able to make it. You must lower yourself into the water very quietly, and allow yourself to float down, till you are well astern of the vessel." Richard Horton stood for a minute or two, with his hand over his eyes; then he said in a broken voice: "God bless you, Walsham. I will try it. If I am shot, 'tis better than dying by my own hand. If I escape, I will do my best to retrieve my life. I shall never return to England again, but, under a new name, may start afresh in the colonies. God bless you, and make you happy." The young men wrung each other hands, with a silent clasp, and James returned to his own cabin. The next morning, the officer of marines reported to Captain Peters that the prisoner was missing. The porthole was found open, and a rope hanging to the water's edge. The captain at once took the report to the admiral. "A bad job," the admiral said, with a twinkle of the eye. "A very bad job! How could it have happened?" "The sentries report, sir, that they heard no noise during the night, and that the only person who visited the cabin, with the exception of the sergeant with the prisoner's food, was Major Walsham, with your own order." "Yes, now I think of it, I did give him an order; but, of course, he can have had nothing to do with it. Horton must have managed to unscrew the porthole, somehow, perhaps with a pocketknife, and he might have had a coil of rope somewhere in his cabin. Great carelessness, you know. However, at a time like this, we need not bother our heads about it. He's gone, and there's an end of it." "He could not swim, sir," the captain said. "I heard him say so, once." "Then most likely he's drowned," the admiral remarked briskly. "That's the best thing that could happen. Enter it so in the log book: 'Lieutenant Horton fell out of his cabin window, while under arrest for misconduct; supposed to have been drowned.' That settles the whole matter." Captain Peters smiled to himself, as he made the entry. He was convinced, by the calm manner in which the admiral took it, that he more than suspected that the prisoner had escaped, and that James Walsham had had a hand in getting him off. Shortly after Quebec surrendered, Townshend returned to England with the fleet, leaving Murray in command of the army at Quebec. In the spring, Levis advanced with eight or nine thousand men against Quebec; and Murray, with three thousand, advanced to meet him, and gave battle nearly on the same ground on which the previous battle had been fought. The fight was a desperate one; but the English, being outflanked by the superior numbers of the French, were driven back into Quebec, with the loss of a third of their number. Quebec was now besieged by the French until, in May, an English fleet arrived, and destroyed the vessels which had brought down the stores and ammunition of Levis from Montreal. The French at once broke up their camp, and retreated hastily; but all hope was now gone, the loss of Quebec had cut them off from France. Amherst invaded the country from the English colonies, and the French were driven back to Montreal, before which the united English forces, 17,000 strong, took up their position; and, on the 8th of September, 1760, Vaudreuil signed the capitulation, by which Canada and all its dependencies passed to the English crown. All the French officers, civil and military, and the French troops and sailors, were to be sent back to France, in English ships. James Walsham was not present at the later operations round Quebec. He had been struck, in the side, by a shot by a lurking Indian, when a column had marched out from Quebec, a few days after its capture; and, for three or four weeks, he lay between life and death, on board ship. When convalescence set in, he found that he was already on blue water, all the serious cases being taken back by the fleet when, soon after the capture of Quebec, it sailed for England. The voyage was a long one, and, by the time the fleet sailed with their convoy into Portsmouth harbour, James had recovered much of his strength. An hour after landing, he was in a post chaise on his way home. It seemed strange, indeed, to him, as he drove through the little town, on his way up to the Hall. He had left it, in the beginning of 1755, a raw young fellow of eighteen. He returned, in the last month of 1759, a man of twenty-three, with the rank of major, and no inconsiderable share of credit and honour. He stopped the vehicle at the lodge gate, had his baggage taken out there, and proceeded on foot towards the Hall, for he was afraid that, if he drove straight up to the door, the sudden delight of seeing him would be too much for his mother. John Petersham opened the door, and, recognizing him at once, was about to exclaim loudly, when James made a motion for him to be silent. "Show me quietly into the squire's study, John," he said, grasping the butler's hand with a hearty squeeze, "and don't say anything about my being here, until he has seen my mother. They are all well, I hope?" "All well, sir, and right glad they will be to see you; for Mrs. Walsham, and all of them, have been fretting sorely since the news came that you were badly wounded." "I have had a narrow shave of it," James said; "but, thank God, I am as well now as ever!" As he spoke, he opened the door of the study, and entered. The squire, who was reading the paper, looked up, and leapt to his feet with a cry of satisfaction. "My dear boy, I am glad--thank God you are back again! What a relief your coming will be to us all!" And he shook James warmly by both hands. "I should hardly have known you, and yet you are not so much changed, either. Dear, dear, how delighted your mother will be! You have not seen her yet?" "No, sir," James said. "I dismissed the post chaise at the gate, and walked up quietly. I was afraid, if I drove suddenly up, the shock might be too much for her." "Quite right!" the squire said. "We must break it to her quietly. Wilks must do it--or no, he shall tell Aggie, and she shall tell your mother." He rang the bell, and John, who had been expecting a summons, instantly appeared. "Tell Mr. Wilks I want to speak to him, John." The old soldier speedily appeared, and his delight was as great as if James had been his son. He went off to break the news, and, in a short time, Mrs. Walsham was in the arms of her son. Major Walsham went no more to the wars, nor did he follow his original intention of entering the medical profession. Indeed, there was no occasion for him to do either. For Aggie insisted on his leaving the army; and she had a very strong voice in the matter. James had not long been home before he and the young lady came to an understanding. Before speaking to her, James had consulted his old friend. "You know how I feel," he said; "but I don't know whether it would be right. You see, although I am major in the service, I have nothing but my pay. I owe everything to the squire, and he would naturally look very much higher for a husband for his granddaughter." "Don't you be a fool, James Walsham," Mr. Wilks said. "I made up my mind that you should marry Aggie, ever since the day when you got her out of the sea. The squire has known, for years, what I thought on the subject. You will meet with no opposition from him, for he is almost as proud of you as I am. Besides, he thinks only of Aggie's happiness, and, unless I am greatly mistaken, that young lady has fully made up her mind on the subject." This was indeed the case, for Aggie, when James had settled the point with her, made no hesitation in telling him that she had regarded him as her special property since she had been a child. "I considered it all settled, years and years ago," she said demurely, "and I was quite aggrieved, I can tell you, when, on your arrival, you just held out your hand to me, instead of--well, instead of doing the same to me as to your mother." "You shall have no reason for complaint, that way, in the future, Aggie, I promise you. But how could I tell? The last time I saw you, you were flirting, as hard as you could, with someone else." "Well, sir, whose fault was that? You chose to make yourself disagreeable, and stay away, and what was I to do? I should do the same in the future, I can tell you, if you neglected me in the same way." "I sha'n't give you the chance, Aggie. You can rely upon that." The squire was fully prepared for the communication which James had to make to him, and, as there were no reasons for waiting, the ceremony took place very shortly afterwards. The squire never asked any questions about his nephew. The official report had come home that Lieutenant Horton had died of drowning, while under arrest, but the squire forbore all inquiry, and, to the end of his life, remained in ignorance of the disgraceful circumstances. Perhaps, in his heart, the news was a relief to him. He had never been fond of Richard as a lad, and his confidence, once shaken, had never been restored. He had intended to carry out his promise to leave him twenty thousand pounds; but he was well pleased that all that belonged to him should descend to his granddaughter. Mr. Wilks was the only resident at the Hall who ever learned, from James, the facts of Richard Horton's disgrace. Years afterwards a few lines, without signature or address, came to James from America. The writer said that he was sure that he would be glad to hear that, under a changed name, he was doing very well. "I shall never return to England," he ended, "nor ever forget your kindness and generosity." The marriage of the young people made but few changes at the Hall. The squire proposed to give Aggie, at once, a sum which would have purchased an estate in the neighbourhood; but he was delighted to find that she, and James, had made up their minds that the party at the Hall should not be broken up. "What do you want to send us away for, grandpapa?" she asked. "You three will be happier for having us with you, and James and I will be happier for having you with us. What nonsense to talk about buying another estate! We might get a little house up in London. It would make a change, for James and me to spend two or three months every year there, but of course this will be our home." And so it was arranged, and so matters continued until, in the lapse of time, the seniors passed away, and James Walsham and his wife, and it may be said their children, became the sole occupants of the Hall, the estate having been largely increased, by the purchase of adjoining property, by the squire before his death. James Walsham might have represented his county in Parliament had he chosen, but he was far too happy in his country life, varied by a few months passed every year in town, to care about taking part in the turmoil of politics. He did much for Sidmouth, and especially for its fishermen, and, to the end of his life, retained a passionate love for the sea.	{ "id": "17766" }
1	: Fresh from Ireland.	A number of officers of O'Brien's regiment of foot, forming a part of the Irish Brigade in the service of France, were gathered in a handsome apartment in the Rue des Fosses, on the 20th of June, 1701, when the door opened, and their colonel entered with a young officer in the uniform of the regiment. "I have asked you here, gentlemen all," he said, "to present to you a new comrade, Desmond Kennedy, who, through the good offices of the Marshal de Noailles, has been appointed, by His Gracious Majesty, to a cornetcy in our regiment. "Now, gentlemen, I have known, and doubtless you can all of you recall, instances where the harmony of a regiment has been grievously disturbed, and bad blood caused, owing to the want of a clear understanding upon matters connected with a family; which might have been avoided, had proper explanations been given at the commencement. I have spoken frankly to Mr. Kennedy, and he has stated to me certain particulars, and has not only authorized me, but requested me to repeat them to you, feeling that you had a right to know who it was that had come among you, and so to avoid questioning on matters that are, of all others, prone to lead to trouble among gentlemen. "Beyond the fact that he is a Kennedy, and that his father had to fly from Ireland, two years after the siege of Limerick, owing to a participation in some plot to bring about a fresh rising in favour of King James, he is unacquainted with his family history. He has never heard from his father, and only knows that he made for France after throwing the usurper's spies off his track, and there can be little doubt that it was his intention to take service in this brigade. There have been several Kennedys in the service, and I have little doubt that this young gentleman's father was the Murroch Kennedy who joined the third regiment, about that time, and was killed a few months afterwards at the battle of Breda. His death would account for the fact that his son never received a letter from him. At the time when he left Ireland, the child was some two years old, and, as communication was difficult, and the boy so young, Murroch might very well have put off writing until the boy grew older, not thinking that death might intervene, as it did, to prevent his doing so. "This is all simple and straightforward enough, and you will, I am sure, have no hesitation in extending the hand of friendship to the son of a gallant Irishman, who died fighting in the ranks of the Irish Brigade, exiled, like the rest of us, for loyalty to our king. "Still, gentlemen, you might, perhaps, wonder how it is that he knows no more of his family, and it was that this question might be disposed of, once for all, that I am making this statement to you on his behalf. He was not brought up, as you might expect, with some of his father's connections. Whether the family were so scattered that there was no one to whom he could safely entrust the child, I know not, but, in point of fact, he sent him to one of the last houses where a loyal gentleman would wish his son to be brought up. We all know by name and reputation--I and your majors knew him personally--the gallant James O'Carroll, who died, fighting bravely, at the siege of Limerick. He was succeeded in his estate by his brother John, one of the few Irishmen of good family who turned traitor to his king, and who secured the succession to his brother's possessions by becoming an ardent supporter of the usurper, and by changing his religion. "Why Murroch Kennedy should have chosen such a man as the guardian of his son is a mystery. Whether they had been great friends in earlier times, when John O'Carroll professed as warm an attachment to the Stuart cause as did his brother James, or whether Kennedy possessed such knowledge of O'Carroll's traitorous dealings with the Dutchman as would, if generally known, have rendered him so hateful to all loyal men that he could no longer have remained in the country, and so had a hold over him, Mr. Kennedy can tell us nothing. He was brought by his nurse to Castle Kilkargan, and was left with John O'Carroll. It is clear that the latter accepted the charge unwillingly, for he sent the child to a farm, where he remained until he was eight years old, and then placed him with the parish priest, who educated him. The lad visited at the houses of the neighbouring gentry, shot and rowed and fished with their sons. O'Carroll, however, beyond paying for his maintenance, all but ignored his existence, showing no interest whatever in him, up to the time when he furnished him with a letter of introduction to de Noailles, except that he made him a present of a gun, as soon as he became of an age to use one. He never attempted to tamper with his loyalty to King James, and in fact, until he sent for him to ask what profession he would choose, he never exchanged ten words with him, from the time that he was brought to the castle. "We can each form our own theory as to the cause of such strange conduct. He may have given a pledge, to Murroch, that the boy should be brought up a loyalist, and a true son of the church. It may have been that the loyalty of the boy's father formed so unpleasant a contrast to his own disloyalty, and apostasy, that he disliked the sight of him. However, these theories can make no difference in our reception of Desmond Kennedy, as a gentleman of a good family, and as the son of a loyal adherent of the king; and as such, I think that I can, from what I have already seen of him, assert that he is one who will be a good comrade, a pleasant companion, and a credit to the regiment." The subject of these remarks was a tall and handsome young fellow, some sixteen years of age. He was already broad at the shoulders, and promised to become an exceedingly powerful man. He had stood somewhat behind the colonel, watching calmly the effect of his words on those whose comrade he was to be, for he knew how punctilious were his countrymen, on the subject of family, placing as much or even more value than did the Scots, on points of genealogy, and of descent from the old families. His frank open face, his bearing and manner, did as much to smooth his way as did the speech of his colonel, who, when he had been introduced to him, two days before, had questioned him very closely on the subject of his family. It had almost been a matter of satisfaction to Desmond when he heard, from the colonel, that the officer who had fallen at Breda was probably the father of whom he had no remembrance; for, from the time he attained the age of boyhood, it had been a grief and pain that he should never have heard from his father, who, it now appeared, had been prevented by death from ever communicating with him. The officers received him cordially. They had little doubt that he was the son of the Murroch Kennedy, of Dillon's regiment, although, after they separated, some wonder was expressed as to the reason why the latter had committed his son to the care of so notorious a traitor as John O'Carroll. Desmond had been specially introduced to two of the young lieutenants, Patrick O'Neil and Phelim O'Sullivan, and these took him off with them to their quarters. "And what is the last news from Ireland? I suppose that the confiscations have ceased, for the excellent reason that they have seized the estates of every loyal gentleman in the country?" "That was done long ago, in the neighbourhood of Kilkargan, and, so far as I know, everywhere the feeling is as bitter as ever, among those who have been dispossessed, and also among the tenants and peasantry, who have found themselves handed over to the mercies of Dutchmen, or other followers of William. At Kilkargan there was not that grievance; but, although they had still one of the old family as their master, they could not forgive him for deserting to the side of the usurper, nor for changing his religion in order to do pleasure to William. Certainly, he can have derived but little satisfaction from the estates. He seldom showed himself out of doors, never without two or three armed servants, all of whom were strangers from the north, and he was often away, for months together, at Dublin." "And what did you do with yourself?" "I fished, shot, and rode. I had many friends among the gentry of the neighbourhood, who would, doubtless, have shown less kindness than they did, had it not been for the neglect with which O'Carroll treated me. His unpopularity was all in my favour. "However, I have one good reason for being obliged to him, since it was through him that I obtained my commission. He told me that, in his young days, he had been at a French college with the duke. They had been great friends there, and he thought that, in memory of this, de Noailles would procure me a commission." "I suppose the real fact was, Kennedy, that he was glad to get rid of you altogether?" "I think that is likely enough. He certainly raised no objection, whatever, to my going abroad, and seemed to think it natural that I should choose the Irish Brigade, here, in preference to the British service. He said something unpleasant about its not being singular that I should be a rebel, when I always associated with rebels, to which I replied that it seemed to me that I could hardly be blamed for that, seeing that my father had been what he called a rebel, and that I had little choice in the matter of my associates; and that if I had been educated at a school in England, instead of by good Father O'Leary, I might have had other sentiments. He replied that my sentiments were nothing to him, one way or the other. He was glad to wash his hands of me altogether; and, at any rate, if I went to France, I could drink the health of King James every day without his being involved in my treason." "It almost looked as if he wished you to grow up a rebel, Kennedy, or he would hardly have placed you in the charge of a priest. He may have reckoned that if there was another rising, you might join it, and so be taken off his hands, altogether." "Whatever the reason was, I have certainly cause for satisfaction that he removed me from the care of the farmer's wife, with whom he at first placed me, and arranged with the priest to take charge of me altogether. O'Leary himself had been educated at Saint Omer, and was a splendid fellow. He was very popular on the countryside, and it was owing to my being with him that I was admitted to the houses of the gentry around, whereas, had I remained in the farmhouse in which O'Carroll first placed me, I should only have associated with the sons of other tenants." "It looked, at any rate, as if he wished to make a gentleman of you, Kennedy." "Yes, I suppose my father had asked him to do so. At any rate, I was infinitely better off than I should have been if he had taken me in at Kilkargan, for in that case I should have had no associates, whatever. As it was, I scarcely ever exchanged a word with him, until that last meeting. He sent down, by one of his servants, the letter to the Duc de Noailles, and a bag containing money for my outfit here, and for the purchase of a horse, together with a line saying that he had done his duty by me, and had no desire to hear from me in the future. I was inclined to send the money back to him, but Father O'Leary persuaded me not to do so, saying that I must be in a position to buy these things, if I obtained a commission; and that, no doubt, the money had been given me, not for my own sake, but because he felt that he owed it to me, for some service rendered to him by my father." "It was an ungracious way of doing it," O'Sullivan said, "but, in your circumstances, I should have taken the money had it come from the old one himself. It is, perhaps, as well that it should have been done in such a manner that you may well feel you owe no great gratitude towards such a man." "And how did you get over here?" "There was no great difficulty about that. In spite of the activity of the English cruisers, constant communication is kept up between Ireland and France, and fortunately I had, a short time before, made the acquaintance of one of your officers, who was over there, in disguise, gathering recruits for the Brigade." "Yes, there are a good many agents in Ireland engaged in that work. There is no difficulty in obtaining recruits, for there is scarcely a young Irishman who does not long to be with his countrymen, who have won such credit out here, and many abstain from joining only because they do not know how to set about it. The work of the agents, then, is principally to arrange means for their crossing the channel. It is well that the supply is steadily kept up, for, I can assure you, every battle fought makes very heavy gaps in our ranks; but in spite of that, three fresh regiments have been raised, in the last year, partly by fresh comers from Ireland, and partly by Irish deserters from Marlborough's regiments. "But I am interrupting your story." "Well, after leaving Mr. O'Carroll, and making my preparations, I paid a visit to the cottage where the officer was staying, in disguise, and told him that I wanted to cross. He gave instructions as to how to proceed. I was to go to a certain street in Cork, and knock at a certain door. When it was opened, I was to say, 'The sea is calm and the sky is bright'. " 'Then', he said, 'you will be taken in hand, and put on board one of the craft engaged in the work of carrying our recruits across the water. You will be landed at Saint Malo, where there is an agent of the Brigade, who gives instructions to the recruits as to how they are to proceed, supplies them with money enough for the journey, and a man to accompany each party, and act as interpreter on the way. "I carried out his instructions, crossed the channel in a lugger with thirty young peasants, bound also for Paris, and, on landing at Saint Malo, took my place in the diligence for Paris; having, fortunately, no need for an interpreter. On my presenting my letter to the Marquis de Noailles, he received me with great kindness, and treated me as a guest, until he had obtained me a commission in your regiment. "Now, when are we likely to go on active service?" "Soon, I expect," O'Neil said; "but whether we shall be sent to the Peninsula, or to Flanders, no one knows. In fact, it is likely enough that we shall, for the present, remain here; until it is seen how matters go, and where reinforcements will be most required. It is but ten months since we came into garrison, in Paris, and we may therefore expect to be one of the last regiments ordered off. "For my part, I am in no particular hurry to exchange comfortable quarters, and good living, and such adventures as may fall to the lot of a humble subaltern, for roughing it in the field; where, as has been the case ever since the Brigade was formed, we get a good deal more than our fair share of hard work and fighting." "I should have thought that you would all have liked that," Desmond said, in some surprise. "Enough is as good as a feast," the other said; "and when you have done a few weeks' work in trenches, before a town you are besieging; stood knee deep for hours in mud, soaked to the skin with rain, and with the enemy's shot coming through the parapet every half minute or so; you will see that it is not all fun and glory. "Then, too, you see, we have no particular interest in the quarrels between France and Germany. When we fight, we fight rather for the honour of the Irish Brigade, than for the glory of France. We have a grudge against the Dutch, and fight them as interested parties, seeing that it was by his Dutch troops that William conquered Ireland. As to the English troops, we have no particular enmity against them. Cromwell's business is an old story, and I don't suppose that the English soldier feels any particular love for Queen Anne, or any animosity against us. And after all, we are nearer in blood to them than we are to the Germans, Austrians, or Spaniards, for there are few, even of our oldest families, who have not, many times since the days of Strongbow, intermarried with the English settlers. At any rate, there are still plenty of adherents of King James in England and Scotland. We speak the same language, and form part of the same nation, and I own that I would rather fight against any foreign foe than against them." "So would I," Desmond said heartily. "Our only point of difference is that we don't agree as to who should be king. We want a Catholic king, and the majority of the English want a Protestant king. We have fought on the subject, and been beaten. Next time, we hope that we may succeed. If the king were to land in England again, I would fight heart and soul in his cause; but whether the French beat the English, in the present war, or the English beat the French, will not, as far as I can see, make much difference to King James; who, Father O'Leary tells me, is, in his opinion, supported here by the French king from no great love for himself, but because, so long as James has adherents in Ireland, Scotland, and England, he is able to play him off against the English Government." The other young men laughed. "For heaven's sake, Kennedy, keep such sentiments as these to yourself. It is a matter of faith, in our brigade, that we are fighting in the cause of King James, as against the English usurper. Now that William is dead, and James's daughter on the throne, matters are complicated somewhat; and if the Parliament had settled the succession, after Anne, on her brother, there might have been an end of the quarrel altogether. But now that they have settled it on Sophia of Hanover, granddaughter of James the 1st, and her descendants, subject to the restriction that they shall be Protestants, the quarrel does not seem likely to be healed." "This priest of yours must be a dangerous man," O'Sullivan said. "Not at all. I can assure you, he is devoted to the king; but, as he told me, there is no use in Irishmen always closing their eyes to the true state of things. He says that we must rely upon ourselves, and our loyal friends in Scotland and England, but that he is sure the king will never be placed on his throne by French bayonets. A small auxiliary force may be sent over, but, in all these years, Louis has made no real effort to assist him; and even if, for his own purposes, he sent a great army to England, and placed him on the throne, he would not be able to maintain himself there for a month after the French had withdrawn, for even a rightful king would be hated by the people upon whom he had been forced, by a foreign power, especially a power that had, for centuries, been regarded as their chief enemy. If he had been in earnest, Louis would have sent over a great army, instead of a few thousand men, to Ireland, when such a diversion would have turned the scale in our favour. As he did not do so then, he is not likely to do so in the future. The king is useful to him, here, by keeping up an agitation that must, to some extent, cripple the strength of England; but, were a Stuart on the throne, he would have to listen to the wishes of the majority of his people, and France would gain nothing by placing him there. Moreover, she would lose the services of twenty thousand of her best soldiers, for naturally the exiles would all return home, and what is now the most valuable force in the French service, might then become an equally important one in the service of Britain." "I am glad that this priest of yours remains quietly in Kilkargan, for, if he were to come here, and expound his views among our regiments, he might cause quite a defection among them. At any rate, Kennedy, I should advise you not to take to propagating his views in the regiment. It would not add to your comfort, or ours, and there are a good many hot-headed men who would take up the idea that you had been infected by O'Carroll's principles." "It would not be well for anyone to say as much to my face," Desmond said. "Father O'Leary is loyal to the backbone, although he has his own ideas as to the hopelessness of our obtaining any efficient help from Louis. He thinks that it will be far better to trust to our friends at home, and that, even did Louis carry out his promises, it would in the long run harm rather than benefit King James." "I am not saying that his view may not be correct, Kennedy. I am only saying that the view would be a very unpopular one, among the Brigade. We are fighting for France because we believe that France, in turn, will aid in placing our rightful king on the throne, and if we once entertained the notion that Louis was deceiving us, that he had no intention of helping us, and that, if he did place James on the throne, he would alienate all his sympathizers at home, we should ask ourselves of what use was it, spending our blood in fighting the battles of France." "At any rate, I will take your advice, O'Sullivan, and will keep my lips sealed, as to Father O'Leary's views. As you see, by my presence here, he has not convinced me, and as long as there is a hope that, by the aid of a French army, we may yet see our king come to his own again, I shall do my best to prove myself a faithful soldier of France. I have chosen my career with my eyes open. A loyal Irishman cannot obtain employment, still less military employment, in his own country, and accordingly, we are to be found fighting as soldiers of fortune in every country in Europe. At least there is some chance that we may be benefiting the royal cause by fighting for the country that gave King James shelter, and rendered him armed assistance in his struggle with the usurper, and will probably give aid, more or less efficient, when the next attempt is made. In other countries we are but soldiers of fortune. In France we may regard ourselves as serving our own king by serving King Louis." "Do you speak French well, Kennedy?" O'Neil said, changing the conversation abruptly. "Yes. Father O'Leary took care of that, for I always said that I should take service abroad, as there was clearly nothing else to do for a living, and, consequently, he generally talked to me in that language, and I speak it as well as I do English or Irish." "You have not had much practice with the sword, I suppose?" "Not so much as I could wish, though I never lost an opportunity of practising. There were several of the tenants who served in the regiment James O'Carroll raised. I used to practise with them, but I shall lose no time in getting the best instruction I can, here." "You may want it, Kennedy. We are not particularly liked by the French officers, because we are generally chosen to lead an assault, or for other desperate service. Duelling is, of course, forbidden, but that in no way prevents duels from being frequent. As for fighting in action, as far as I have seen or heard, swordsmanship does not go for a great deal. If you press on hard enough, and there are men following you, the enemy give way, generally, before it comes to hand-to-hand fighting. If, on the other hand, they are the more numerous, and hold their position in the breach, it is the musketry that settles it. It is only when two officers happen to meet, in a fierce fight, that swordsmanship becomes of importance. "We have a good school in the regiment, and there are several famous masters of fence in the town, so I should advise you to give a couple of hours a day, for a time, to making yourself a first-rate swordsman. I have just left off. Our maitre d'armes tells me I am too hotheaded ever to make a fine blade; but I should fancy, from the way you have been arguing, that you are likely to be cooler than most of us in a fencing bout. It is the fault with us all that we are apt to lose our tempers, and indeed Maitre Maupert, who is the best teacher here, declines absolutely to take any of us as pupils, saying that, while we may do excellently well in battle, he can never hope to make first-class fencers of men who cannot be relied upon to keep their heads cool, and to fight with pointed weapons as calmly as they might fence with a friend in a saloon." "Well, I shall work hard to become a fair swordsman," Desmond said, with a laugh. "I suppose there is plenty of time to spare." "Plenty. We have a couple of hours' drill in the morning, and after that, except when you are officer of the day, you can spend your time as you like. The colonel and two of his officers attend at the king's levees, when he is in Paris, but, as he spends the greater portion of his time at Versailles, we are seldom called upon for that duty." A few days after Desmond's arrival, the colonel took him with him to Saint Germain, where James the 3rd, as his supporters called him, held a miniature court. The colonel presented Desmond as a loyal subject of His Majesty, and a newly-joined cornet in his regiment. The young prince was a lad of eighteen. He was surrounded by a group of courtiers, who had accompanied or followed his father into exile, and whose insistence upon treating him with the respect due to a monarch was in no slight degree galling to him, for, as he often declared to the few friends he had about his own age, he had all the disadvantages of being a king, without any of the advantages. He was at once taken with the appearance of Desmond Kennedy. "Ah, Monsieur Kennedy," he said, after the ceremony of presentation had been completed; "I wish that I had all my faithful subjects, of the Irish Brigade, across the water with me; and that I could put on a uniform like yours, and fight at their head for my rights." "I would that you had, Sire. It would be a good day for us all; and believe me, that either in Ireland or Scotland you would soon find yourself at the head of an army, many times more numerous than our brigade." "They all tell me that I must wait," the young prince said, with a sigh, "but I have been waiting a long time now, and it seems no nearer than when I was a child. However, the King of France has promised me that it cannot be much longer; and that, when Marlborough is defeated, and his army driven back across the sea, he will send a fleet and an army to place me on my throne." "We shall all rejoice, indeed, when that time comes, Sire; and I am sure there is not a man in the Irish Brigade who will not follow you to the death, and serve you as faithfully as many of them did your royal father." "I hope you will come here often, Monsieur Kennedy. I am sure that I shall like you very much, and I think that you would always say what you thought, and tell me the real truth about things." "Sire!" one of the older men exclaimed, reproachfully. "I mean no reflection on anyone, Dillon. You all say what I am sure you feel, but you have grown accustomed to waiting, and all think of what is politic, and complain that I speak too frankly. Monsieur Kennedy comes straight from Ireland, and he is not old enough, yet, to have learned to measure his words, and will not be always afraid that anything he may say will be carried to the king. "How I wish that the king would send me with Marshal Tallard!" "That would never do, Sire. The English are your subjects, and they would never forgive you, if you were to appear in the field with a French army, fighting against them." "But the Irish Brigade fight, Dillon?" "Yes, Your Majesty, but they are in the service of France, and, by the terms of the treaty of Limerick, were allowed to expatriate themselves, and to enter the French service. We have, in fact, renounced our nationality, with the consent of the English, and, if taken prisoners, could only be treated as captured foes, and not as traitors. Of course, when Your Majesty ascends the throne, we shall again become British subjects." "I trust that that may come soon, Dillon, and for your sake, rather than my own. When the time comes, you will not find me backward, but this weary waiting tries me sorely, and, were it not for those who have remained faithful to our cause, I would gladly resign such chances as I have of succeeding to the throne of England, and take a commission in the Irish Brigade." Dillon and some of the elder men shook their heads. "Can you wonder?" the young prince said, passionately. "Here is Master Kennedy, who is younger than myself, though a free life and exercise have made him a man, in comparison to me. He has his life before him. He will bear his part in many a pitched battle, and, doubtless, in many a private adventure. He is his own master, and, as long as he does his duty, there are none to say, 'you must not do that; you must not say that; you must preserve your dignity; you must speak softly and discreetly; you must wait patiently.' "I envy you, Master Kennedy. I envy you, from the bottom of my heart! Come often to see me. You will always be welcome;" and, turning abruptly away, he left the chamber hurriedly, to conceal the tears which filled his eyes. His counsellors shook their heads solemnly, but Colonel O'Brien said, warmly: "What the king says is natural, for a man of his age; and, for my part, it has increased my respect for him. I say it without offence, but what could be duller than the life this lad leads here? He has been brought up, literally, without a pleasure. His late Majesty, heaven rest his soul! was absorbed in his religious exercises, and nothing could have been more trying, to a boy, than a court in which the priests and confessors were practically supreme. Since his father's death, things have been but little better, and now I see that, at heart, the young king has plenty of spirit and energy, I can feel that his life has been that of a caged hawk, and I am not surprised that he occasionally breaks out into revolt against it. It would, methinks, do him a world of good, had he a few companions about his own age, like Ensign Kennedy. I would even say that, although I can quite understand that, as King of England, he could not well take a commission in one of our regiments, he might at least be placed with one of our most experienced and honoured colonels, in order to learn military exercises, and to mix with the officers as any other nobleman might do, when attached to the regiment." Murmurs of dissent arose among the counsellors. "Well, gentlemen," the colonel went on, "I have no desire to interfere with your functions, but, in my opinion, it is good that a king should also be a general. Did anyone think any the worse of Dutch William, that he was able to command his army, personally? None of us can believe that King James will ever succeed to the inheritance of his fathers, without fighting; and it would be well, indeed, that he should not appear as a puppet, but as one qualified to command. It was the fault, or rather the misfortune, of his father, that he was unfit to lead his troops in the field. Had he been able to do so, he would, in all probability, have died King of England, instead of as a fugitive and a pensioner of King Louis. In one way, it grieves me to see that the young king feels his position acutely; but, on the other hand, I am rejoiced to see that he is in no way lacking in spirit, and that he longs to be out of his cage, and to try his wings for himself. "Well, gentlemen, having had my say, I will take my leave of you, as duty calls me back to my regiment. I trust that the frankness with which I have spoken will not be misunderstood." So saying, with a bow to the courtiers he left the room, followed by Kennedy. "They mean well," he said, after they had mounted, and ridden off at a gallop; "but it is a pity that these gentlemen, all loyal and honourable men as they are, should surround the young king. They suited, well enough, to the mood of his father, who was always wanting in spirit, and was broken down, not only by the loss of his kingdom, but by the conduct of his daughters; and, what with that, and his devotion to religion, he was rather a monk than a monarch. He believed--but most mistakenly--that he had a genius for politics, and was constantly intriguing with his adherents at home, notably Marlborough and other lords, from whom he obtained fair words and promises of support, but nothing else. But though he could plan, he did not possess a spark of energy, and was one of the most undecided of men, though, like most undecided men, he could be extremely obstinate; and, unfortunately, the more wrong he was, the more obstinately he held to his course. "However, all this can make no difference in our devotion to the Stuart cause. But I hail, with satisfaction, the prospect that, in his son, we may have one to whom we may feel personally loyal; for there can be no doubt that men will fight with more vigour, for a person to whom they are attached, than for an abstract idea." "I have heard Father O'Leary say the same, sir. His opinion was that, had the late king possessed the qualities that commanded the personal admiration and fidelity of his followers, and excited something like enthusiasm among the people at large, he would never have lost his throne; nor, could he have led his armies, as did Gustavus or Charles the 12th of Sweden, would William of Orange ever have ventured to cross to England." "It was a bad business, altogether, lad. His cause was practically lost, from the day that William set foot upon English soil. He had, in reality, no personal friends; and those who would have remained faithful to the cause, were paralysed by his indecision and feebleness. Charles the Martyr made many mistakes, but he had the passionate adherence of his followers. His personality, and his noble appearance, did as much for him as the goodness of his cause; while his son, James, repelled rather than attracted personal devotion. I trust that his grandson will inherit some of his qualities. His outburst, today, gave me hope that he will do so; but one must not build too much on that. It may have been only the pettishness of a young man, sick of the constant tutelage to which he is subjected, and the ennui of the life he leads, rather than the earnestness of a noble spirit. "Of course, Kennedy, I need not tell you that it would be well to make no mention, to anyone, of the scene that you have witnessed." "I shall certainly make no mention of it to anyone, sir. I am sorry, indeed, for the young king. His life must be a dreadful one, conscious of the impossibility of breaking the bonds in which he is held, and knowing that his every word and action will be reported, by spies, to the King of France." For three months, Desmond Kennedy worked hard at drill and sword exercise. He became a general favourite in the regiment, owing to his good temper, high spirits, and readiness to join in everything that was going on. He went over, several times, to Saint Germain. At first, the king's counsellors looked but coldly upon him, and he would have ceased to come there, had it not been for the unaffected pleasure shown by the king at his visits. In time, however, two of the principal men at the little court requested him to have a conversation with them, before going into the king's chamber. "You will understand, Mr. Kennedy," one of them said, when they had seated themselves in a quiet spot in the garden; "that we, standing in the position of His Majesty's counsellors, are in a position of great responsibility. His Majesty, as we admit is but natural, chafes over the inaction to which he is condemned by circumstances; and is apt, at times, to express his desire for action in terms which, if they came to the ears of King Louis, as we have every reason to believe is sometimes the case, would do him and the cause serious injury. Naturally, we should be glad for him to have companions of his own age, but it behoves us to be most careful that such companionship should not add to our difficulties in this direction; and we should view with satisfaction a friendship between the young king and one who, like yourself, is nearly of his own age and, as we can see, full of spirit and energy. In these matters the king is deficient; but it would be better that he should, for the present, remain as he is, rather than that he should, in acquiring more manly habits, grow still more impatient and discontented with his position. "We have naturally taken some little trouble in finding out how you stand in your regiment, and we hear nothing but good of you. You are much liked by your comrades, pay the greatest attention to your military exercises, and are regarded as one who will, some day, do much credit to the regiment; and we feel that, in most respects, your influence could not but be advantageous to the young king; but the good that this might do him would be more than balanced, were you to render him still more impatient than he is for action. You may well suppose that we, exiles as we have been for so many years from our country, are not less impatient than he for the day of action; but we know that such action must depend upon the King of France, and not upon ourselves. We would gladly risk all, in an effort to place him on the throne of England, to repair past injustices and cruel wrongs; but, were we to move without the assistance of Louis, instead of achieving that object we might only bring fresh ruin, confiscations, and death upon the royalists of England, Scotland, and Ireland. Are you of our opinion?" "Completely so, sir. Of course, I know but little of what is passing, save in the neighbourhood where I have been brought up; but I know that there, even among the king's most devoted adherents, there is a feeling that nothing can possibly be done until France lends her aid, in earnest. The English army is far stronger than it was when we were last in arms, and when William had to rely, almost entirely, upon his Dutch troops and Dutch generals; while the friends of the Stuarts are almost without arms, without leaders, and without organization." "That is good, Mr. Kennedy; and, if we were to sanction King James's forming an intimacy with you, can I understand that we could rely upon your not using your influence to add to his impatience for action, and discontent with his present position?" "Certainly, sir. Being so recently from Ireland, I could assure him that even his most devoted adherents, there, are of opinion that no rising could be attended with success, unless backed by French arms, and especially by the aid of the Irish Brigade, which has already won such renown for itself, and whose appearance would excite the greatest enthusiasm among all Irishmen." "In that case, Mr. Kennedy, so far from throwing any difficulties in the way of His Majesty seeking your companionship, we shall encourage him, and shall be glad to see you here, as often as your military duties will permit."	{ "id": "18349" }
2	: A Valiant Band.	The permission was not attended with the result that the young prince's counsellors had hoped. For a time, James showed a lively pleasure when Desmond rode over to Saint Germain, walked with him in the gardens, and talked to him alone in his private apartments, and professed a warm friendship for him; but Desmond was not long in discovering that his first estimate of the prince's character had been wholly erroneous, and that his outburst at their first meeting had been the result of pique and irritation, rather than any real desire to lead a more active life. Upon the contrary, he was constitutionally indolent and lethargic. There were horses at his command, but it was seldom, indeed, that he would take the trouble to cross the saddle, although walking was distasteful to him. Even when speaking of his hopes of ascending the throne of England, he spoke without enthusiasm, and said one day: "It is a pity that it cannot be managed without fuss and trouble. I hate trouble." "Nothing can be done worth doing, without trouble, Your Majesty," Desmond said sturdily. "It almost seems to me that, if everything could be had without trouble, it would not be worth having." "How do you mean, Mr. Kennedy?" "I may illustrate it by saying, Sire, that no true fisherman would care about angling in a pond, close to his house, and so full of fish, that he had but to drop a baited hook into the water to bring up one immediately. The pleasure of fishing consists largely in the hard work that it demands. It is, perhaps, miles to a stream across the hills, and a long day's work may produce but a half dozen fish; but these the angler prizes in proportion to the trouble he has had to get them. I think that, were I born heir to a throne, I would rather that it should cost me hardship, toil, and danger to obtain it, than walk into a cathedral, a few days after my father's death, and there be crowned." "I do not agree with you, at all," James said, shortly. "If anything could not be had without toil, hardship, and danger, as you say, I would willingly go without it." "Then, Sire, I can only hope that the toil and danger may be borne by your devoted followers, and that you may be spared them, personally." James looked sharply up at his companion, to gather whether the words were spoken sarcastically, but Desmond's face, though flushed, was calm and serious. Nevertheless, indolent as he was, James felt that the words were a reproof; that, although he had at first liked him, there was in reality little in common between him and this energetic young fellow; and the next time he came, he received him with much less cordiality than before; while Desmond, who was beginning to tire of the companionship of one who lacked, alike, the fun and humour, and the restless activity of his comrades, Patrick and Phelim; and who saw that the professions of James's friendship were but short lived, came over to Saint Germain less frequently, until, at last, he only rode over with his colonel, or when some duty called him there. "So you have been a failure, Master Kennedy," the counsellor who had first spoken to him said, one day, when the change in the king's manner became evident to them all. "I am afraid so, sir," Desmond replied with a smile. "I have no doubt that it was my fault. Perhaps I was not patient enough with him; but, indeed, my efforts to rouse him to take exercise, to practise in arms, and so on, were so ill received, that I felt I was doing more harm than good." "I was afraid that it would be so," the other said, regretfully. "You see, during his later years, his father gave up his time almost entirely to religious observances; and, consequently, the lad's life was very dull and monotonous. Constitutionally, he undoubtedly takes after his father, who, with all his virtues, was at once indolent and undecided. We have observed, with regret, his disinclination to bestir himself in any way. Seeing that we, who were his father's companions, are too old, or too much disheartened, to be lively companions for him, we had hoped that the talk of one of spirit, and of his own age, might have roused him to make some exertions to overcome his disinclination for anything like active exercise. I think now, however, that we were wrong; that the tonic was too strong; that he could not but feel that your abundance of spirits, and life, were too much for him; and that the companion he needs is one who could, to some extent, sympathize with him, and who could, perhaps, make more allowance for the manner in which he has been brought up. "We do not blame you at all. I am sure that you have done your best. But it is evident that the contrast between you and himself has been too strong a one; and that, feeling he cannot hope to emulate your soldierly activity, he has come to resent it, as a sort of reflection upon himself." Desmond was, by no means, sorry at being relieved of the necessity of paying frequent visits to Saint Germain. In the first place, he begrudged the time that was taken from his fencing lessons, at which he had worked enthusiastically; and in the next, he had felt, after two or three visits, that between himself and the young king there was really nothing in common. Full of life and spirits himself, it seemed to him nothing short of disgraceful that one, who aspired to rule, should take no pains whatever to fit himself for a throne, or to cultivate qualities that would render himself popular among a high-spirited people. And, as he came to understand James more thoroughly, he had found his visits increasingly irksome, all the more so, as he felt their inutility. "Thank goodness," he said, to his two friends, when he went home that day, "I have done with Saint Germain. I am as warm an adherent as ever of the cause of the Stuarts, and should be perfectly ready, when the time comes, to fight my hardest for them; but I would vastly rather fight for the king, than converse with him." "I suppose, by what I have seen of him, that he must be somewhat wearisome," Phelim O'Sullivan said, with a laugh. "Fortunately, wit and gaiety are not essential qualities on the part of a monarch; but I must own that, treasonable as it may sound, I fear His Majesty is lacking in other qualities, far more essential in a monarch. I should say that he is kindly and well disposed, he wishes to be fair and just, and may turn out a wise ruler; but he is altogether deficient in energy. I suppose there is no occasion for a king, safely seated upon a throne, to be energetic; but a prince in exile should possess the qualities that excite enthusiasm, and bind men to him. Possibly, the qualities King James possesses would be highly valued by the Scotch, but they would certainly fail to inspire our people." "Yes," Patrick O'Neil agreed. "His father did more to ruin his cause, in Ireland, than all William's Dutch generals and troops, together. It was disheartening to be risking life and possessions for a man who would do nothing for himself, whose indecision paralysed our leaders, and who, the moment a reverse came, sought safety in flight, instead of taking his place among the men who were devoted to his cause. I can understand that, in England, where the majority of those who professed to be devoted to him were betraying him, and were in secret communication with William, he should be by turns obstinate and vacillating; but in Ireland, where every man who surrounded him was risking his life in his cause, he should have shown absolute confidence in them, listened to their advice, set an example of personal gallantry and courage, and, at least, remained among them until all was definitely lost. It was the desertion of James, rather than the loss of the battle of the Boyne, that ruined his cause. "Well, I am glad you are out of it, for it was a pity that you should be going without your work at the salle d'armes, when you were making such progress that, the master reported, in a few months you would become one of the best swordsmen in the regiment." There were, in Paris, many Irish officers besides those belonging to Colonel O'Brien's regiment. These were, for the most part, men who had been severely wounded in the preceding campaign, and who now remained in the capital with the depots of their regiments. These were constantly recruited by fresh arrivals from Ireland, by which means the Irish Brigade was not only kept up to their original strength, in spite of the heavy losses they suffered, in the engagements in which they had taken part, but largely increased its force, new regiments being constantly formed. Naturally, O'Brien's corps, being the only complete regiment in Paris, at the time, was regarded as the headquarters and general meeting place of all the Irish officers there; and, as some of these had campaigned in Flanders, in Italy, and in Spain, Desmond learned, from their talk and anecdotes, far more of the doings of the Brigade than he had hitherto known. From the first they had, by their reckless bravery, in almost every engagement that had taken place, so distinguished themselves that they received the highest commendation from the French generals, and were almost invariably selected for specially dangerous service. "I think the hottest affair I was ever engaged in," a major, who had served in Burke's regiment, said one evening, when some ten or twelve of his companions had gathered, at the room which was the general meeting place of the officers of the corps, "was at the attack on Cremona by Eugene. You have all heard how our regiment, and that of Dillon, distinguished themselves there, but you may not have heard particulars. The place was a strong one, and it was garrisoned by some 4000 men--all French, with the exception of our two regiments. Marshal Villeroy was himself in command; an excellent officer, but, as is often the case in the French army, very badly served by his subordinates. "Here, as you know, almost everything goes by influence; and the generals are surrounded by men who have been forced upon them by powerful persons, whom they cannot afford to disoblige. The consequence was that, relying upon the strength of the place, no proper watch was set. There were guards, indeed, at the gates, but with no communication with each other; no soldiers on the ramparts; no patrols were sent out beyond the town, or maintained in the streets. "No harm might have come of this, had it not been that treachery was at work. There was a scoundrel, who was brother of the priest of one of the parishes near the wall, and both were in favour of the enemy. The priest's residence was near a sewer, which communicated with the moat outside the walls. The entrance was closed by an iron grating. Were this removed, troops could enter, by the sewer, into the priest's wine cellar. "The priest, being promised a large sum of money, set to work. First, he laid a complaint before the governor that the sewer was choked with filth, which might be a source of disease to the town unless removed; and to do this, it was necessary that the grating should be taken down. Being altogether unsuspicious of evil, the governor granted his request. "As soon as the grating was removed, Eugene despatched eight miners, who crossed the moat at night, made their way up the sewer, and opened a communication between it and the priest's house. When all was ready, four or five hundred picked grenadiers entered, and were concealed in the house of the priest, and other adherents of the emperor. "Eugene set two strong bodies of picked troops in motion. The one was to enter by the Saint Margaret gate, which would be seized by the force already in the city. This column consisted of five thousand men. The second force, of two thousand infantry and three thousand cavalry, under the Prince de Vaudemont, was to cross the river by a bridge of boats. "We slept like stupid dogs. Such watchmen as there were on the walls gave no alarm. The gate of All Saints was seized, its guard being instantly overpowered, and a party of engineers broke down the gate of Saint Margaret, which had been walled up; and at daylight Eugene rode into the town, followed by his troops and one thousand cavalry; while another mounted force watched the gate, and the country round, to prevent the escape of fugitives. "Before any alarm was given, Eugene had established himself at the Hotel de Ville, was master of the great street that separated half the garrison from the other half, had taken possession of the cathedral; and, in fact, the place was captured without a shot being fired. "Then the uproar began. Parties of troops, led by natives of the town, seized a large number of officers at their lodgings; and as the alarm spread, the troops seized their muskets and rushed out, only to be sabred and trodden down by the enemy's cavalry. I was asleep, and dreaming, when my servant rushed into my room, and said: "'The Germans are in possession of the town, Captain.' " 'You are a blathering idiot,' I said. " 'It's true, your honour. Get up and listen.' "Very unwillingly, I got out of bed and opened the window, and, by the holy poker, I found that Pat was right. There was a sound of firing, shouting, and screaming, and I heard the gallop of a heavy body of horsemen, and, directly afterwards, a squadron of German cuirassiers came galloping down the street. " 'It is time for us to be out of this, Pat,' I said, and jumped into my clothes, quicker than I had ever done before. "We went downstairs, and I borrowed two overcoats that we found hanging there, and put them on over our uniforms. Then we went out, by the back door, and ran as hard as we could, keeping through narrow lanes, to the barracks. "On my way, I had to pass a barrier near a toll gate. Here there were thirty-six of our men under a sergeant. Not knowing where the enemy were, or whether they were between me and the barracks, I thought it best to stay there, and of course took the command. Just as I had done so, I heard the tramping of cavalry, and had the gate shut. We were just in time, for two hundred and fifty cuirassiers came galloping along. "Their leader, Baron de Mercy, as soon as the troops began to enter Saint Margaret's gate, was ordered to dash round and capture the Po gate, through which Vaudemont's corps would, after crossing the bridge, enter the town. He shouted to me to surrender, promising us our lives. I told him that if he wanted the place, he would have to come and take it. He used language which I need not repeat, but he did not attack us, waiting for the arrival of four hundred infantry, who had been ordered to follow him. They were some time in coming up, having lost their way, owing to the rascally native who was their guide being killed by a shot from a window. "I was not sorry for the delay, for it gave us time to look at matters quietly, and prepare for defence. Another six hundred cavalry now came up, and Mercy placed them so as to cut off, altogether, the French cavalry, who were quartered away to the right; then he ordered the infantry to attack us. "Our position was a good one. The barricade was formed of square piles, driven into the ground with small narrow openings between them. I ordered the men to keep behind the timbers until the enemy came up. The Germans opened a murdering fire as they approached, but, though the bullets pattered like rain against the palisades, and whistled in between them, not a man was touched. I waited till they were within two paces, and then gave the word, and you may well guess that there was not a bullet thrown away, and the Germans, mightily astonished, drew back, leaving nigh forty of their men behind them. Then, falling back a bit, they opened fire upon us, but it was a game that two could play at. We could see them, but they could not see us; and while we loaded our muskets in shelter, they were exposed, and we picked them off by dozens. "The firing had, of course, given the alarm to our two regiments, who turned out just as they were, in their nightshirts. Major O'Mahony, who was in command of Dillon's regiment, as Lally was away on leave, luckily made his way in safety from his lodgings to the barracks, got his own men in order, while Colonel Wauchop, who commanded our regiment, took the command of the two battalions. Fortunately, a portion of the regiment had been ordered to fall in early for inspection, and this gave time for the rest to get into their uniforms; and, as soon as they were ready, Wauchop led them out and fell suddenly upon a portion of Mercy's force, poured in a volley, and then charged them. "Horse and foot fell back before the attack. Then they turned the cannon on the ramparts, and thus secured possession of the Po gate, and, pushing on, the guns helping them, drove the Austrians from the houses they occupied, and so opened communications with the French cavalry. "A brigadier now came up, and ordered the battalions to barricade all the streets they had won, with barrels and carts. A French regiment arrived, and occupied the church of Saint Salvador, and the battery which commanded the bridge, across which Vaudemont's corps could now be seen approaching. The redoubt on the other side of the bridge was only held by fifty men, and they were now strengthened by a hundred of the French soldiers. The Austrians approached, making sure that the town had already been taken, and looking out for a signal that was to be hoisted. Their astonishment was great, when a heavy musketry fire was opened upon them by the garrison of the outpost, while the guns of the battery on the wall plunged their shot in among them. "The column was at once halted. Eugene had regarded the struggle as over, when news was brought to him of the defeat of Mercy's corps by the Irish. Everywhere else things had gone most favourably. Marshal Villeroy had been wounded and made prisoner. His marechal de camp shared the same fate. The Chevalier D'Entregues, who advanced to meet the enemy, was defeated and killed, as was Lieutenant General de Trenan, and the Spanish Governor of the town mortally wounded. "On receiving the news, Eugene at once sent an officer to inspect the Irish position; but his report was that they were too well placed to be driven from it. He then sent Captain MacDonnell, an officer in his service, to offer, if the Irish would leave their position, to enrol them in the Austrian service, with higher pay than they now received. You may guess the sort of answer he received, and he was at once arrested for bringing such a message to them. Eugene then endeavoured to engage Marshal Villeroy to order the Irish to lay down their arms, as further resistance would only end in their slaughter. Villeroy simply replied that, as a prisoner, he could no longer give orders. "During this pause, the Count de Revel and the Marquis de Queslin succeeded in gathering together a considerable number of the scattered French infantry, and with these they marched to endeavour to recover the gates that had been lost, and, having occupied the church of Santa Maria, and a bastion near the gate of All Saints, ordered the Irish to leave a hundred men at the barricades, and with the rest to push forward to the gate of Mantua. So I found myself in command of a full company. "O'Mahony was now in command of the two regiments, as Wauchop had been wounded. It was pretty hard work they had of it, and they suffered heavily in carrying the guardhouse, held by two hundred Austrians. Eugene now launched a great force against our people, and attacked them on all sides; but O'Mahony faced them each way, and received the charge of the cuirassiers with so heavy a fire that they fled in disorder. Another corps of cuirassiers came up, and these charged with such fury that their leader, Monsieur de Freiberg, pushed his way into the middle of Dillon's regiment, where he was surrounded, and, refusing quarter, was killed; and his men, disheartened by the fall of their leader, fled, carrying with them the infantry who were ranged in their rear. "But our men were now exhausted by their exertions, and suffered heavily; and O'Mahony, seeing that he was likely to be attacked by fresh troops, and that my post guarding the approach of the Po gate would then be left altogether unsupported, returned to it. I was glad enough when I saw them coming, for it was mighty trying work being left there, and hearing the storm of battle going on all round, and knowing that at any moment we might be attacked. "They did not stop long, for orders came from Revel, who had captured the gate of All Saints, and was preparing to attack Saint Margaret's, to march again to the gate of Mantua. It seemed a hopeless enterprise. Captain Dillon, of Dillon's regiment, marched out and, after hard fighting, drove the Austrians from house to house; but, on reaching a spot where the ground was open, he was attacked on all sides, and for a time the enemy and our men were mixed up together in a melee. "I could hear by the sound of the firing that our men were returning, and posted my fellows so as to cover their retreat; and as they came back, hotly pressed by the enemy, we opened so warm a fire that they passed in through the gate of the barrier in safety, but only half as strong as they had gone out. "As soon as they were in, they aided us in strengthening the position. Seeing that Vaudemont's corps was on the point of attacking the redoubt, the Marquis de Queslin sent orders to the little garrison there to withdraw across the bridge, and destroy the boats. This they effected, in spite of the heavy fire kept up by the enemy. "In the meantime, fighting had been going on all over the town. The gate of Mantua had been held by Captain Lynch, of Dillon's battalion, and thirty-five men. As soon as he heard the din of battle in the town, he collected a few fugitives, entrenched his position at the guardhouse, and maintained it for the whole day; not only that, but, finding that his position was commanded by a party of Austrians, who had taken post in the church of Saint Marie, close by, he sallied out, drove them from the church, and maintained possession of that as well; until, late in the afternoon, he was reinforced by two companies of our regiment, who made their way this time without opposition. "The enemy fell back, but not unmolested, as, sallying out, we pressed hotly upon them. There now remained only the gate of Saint Margaret in the hands of the Austrians. Here a large body of troops had been stationed, and succeeded in repulsing the repeated attacks made upon them by Revel's force. "The fight had now lasted for eleven hours, and the position of the Austrians had become critical. The desperate resistance of our men had entirely changed the position. They had repulsed every attack upon them, had given time for the scattered French to gather, and the one gate remaining in Eugene's possession was seriously threatened. Vaudemont's corps was helpless on the other side of the river, and could render no assistance, and Eugene gave the order for his troops to retire, which they did in good order. "It had been a hot day, indeed, for us, and we were only too glad to see them go. We had lost three hundred and fifty men, out of the six hundred with which we began the fight; altogether, the garrison had lost, in killed, wounded, and in prisoners, fourteen hundred men and officers, while Eugene's loss was between fifteen and sixteen hundred. "Personally, I have had hotter fighting, but taking the day altogether, it was the most terrible through which I have ever passed. Throughout the day we were in total ignorance of what was going on elsewhere, though we knew, by the firing in other parts of the town, that the French there had not been overpowered, and, each time the regiments left us, I was expecting every moment to be attacked by an overwhelming force. Faith, it was enough to make one's hair white! However, I have no reason to grumble. I obtained great praise for the defence of the barrier, and was given my majority; and, if it had not been for the wound I received, two years ago, which incapacitated me from active service, I might now be in command of the regiment." "Yes, indeed," another officer said. "It was truly a gallant affair; and, although our men had fought equally as well in many another engagement, it was their conduct at Cremona that attracted the greatest attention, and showed the French the value of the Brigade. I would we had always been employed in actions on which we could look back, with the same pride and pleasure, as we can upon Cremona and a long list of battles where we bore the brunt of the fighting; and never failed to be specially mentioned with praise by the general. "The most unpleasant work that I ever did was when under Marshal de Catinat. Eight Irish battalions were sent up, in 1694, from Pignerolle into the valley of La Perouse, to oppose the Vaudois, who had always offered a vigorous resistance to the passage of our troops through their passes. They were wild mountaineers, and Huguenots to a man, who had, I believe, generations ago been forced to fly from France and take refuge in the mountains, and maintained themselves sturdily against various expeditions sent against them. "I own the business was not at all to my taste, and many others of our officers shared my opinions. It was too much like what we remembered so bitterly at home, when William's troopers pursued our fugitives to the hills, burning, destroying, and killing, and, above all, hunting down the priests. This was the other way, but was as cruel and barbarous. The poor people had given no offence, save that they held to their own religion. An Irishman should be the last to blame another for that, and, seeing they had successfully opposed the efforts of the French to root them out, it was much against my will that I marched with my regiment. I hope that, when it comes to fighting against regular troops, of whatever nationality, I am ready to do my work; but to carry fire and sword among a quiet people, in little mountain villages, went against the grain. "It seemed to us that it was to be a massacre rather than fighting, but there we were mistaken. It was the hardest work that I ever went through. It was impossible in such a country to move in large bodies, and we were broken up into small parties, which advanced into the hills, each under its own commander, without any fixed plans save to destroy every habitation, to capture or kill the flocks of goats, which afforded the inhabitants their chief means of subsistence, and to give no quarter wherever they resisted. "Even now, I shudder at the thought of the work we had to do; climbing over pathless hills, wading waist deep through mountain torrents, clambering along on the face of precipices where a false step meant death, and always exposed to a dropping fire from invisible foes, who, when we arrived at the spot from which they had fired, had vanished and taken up a fresh position, so that the whole work had to be done over again. Sometimes we were two or even more days without food, for, as you may imagine, it was impossible to transport provisions, and we had nothing save what we carried in our haversacks at starting. We had to sleep on the soaked ground, in pitiless storms. Many men were carried away and drowned in crossing the swollen torrents. Our clothes were never dry. And the worst of it was, after six weeks of such work, we felt that we were no nearer to the object for which we had been sent up than we were when we started. "It was true that we had destroyed many of their little villages, but as these generally consisted of but a few houses, only rough buildings that could be rebuilt in a few days, the gain was not a substantial one. We had, of course, killed some of the Vaudois, but our loss had been much heavier than theirs, for, active as our men were, they were no match in speed for these mountaineers, who were as nimble as their own goats, knew everything of the country, and could appear or disappear, as it seemed to us, almost by magic. It was a wretched business, and once or twice, when our parties were caught in the narrow ravines, they were overwhelmed by rocks thrown down from above; so that, on the whole, we lost almost as many men as we should have done in a pitched battle, gaining no credit, nor having the satisfaction that we were doing good service to France. "I hope I may never be employed in a business like that again. It was not only the Vaudois that we had to fight, for, seeing that at first we were pushing forward steadily, the Duke of Savoy, under whose protection they lived, sent six hundred regular troops to assist them, and these, who were well commanded, adopted the same tactics as the peasants, avoiding all our attempts to bring on an engagement, and never fighting except when they had us to great advantage. "As a rule, our men were always dissatisfied when they received orders to fall back, but I think that there was not a man among us but was heartily glad, when we were recalled to rejoin Catinat at Pignerolle." The expedition, however, although altogether unsuccessful in rooting out the Vaudois, created such terrible devastation in the mountains and valleys that the Irish name and nation will long remain odious to the Vaudois. Six generations have since passed away, but neither time nor subsequent calamities have obliterated the impression made by the waste and desolation of this military incursion. "You were at Blenheim, were you not, Captain O'Donovan?" "Yes. A tough fight it was, and a mismanaged one. I was in the Earl of Clare's regiment, which, with Lee and Dorrington's battalions, was stationed with the force in Oberglau in the centre of our position. It seemed to us, and to our generals, that our position was almost impregnable. It lay along a ridge, at the foot of which was a rivulet and deep swampy ground. On the right of the position was the village of Blenheim, held by twenty-seven battalions of good French infantry, twelve squadrons, and twenty-four pieces of cannon. Strong entrenchments had been thrown up round our position, but these were not altogether completed. Blenheim, moreover, had been surrounded by very heavy and strong palisades, altogether impassable by infantry, and, as the allies could not hope to get cannon across the stream and swamps, it seemed to defy any attack. From Oberglau the army of Marshal de Marcin and the Elector stretched to the village of Lutzingen. We had some five-and-twenty cannon at Oberglau. "The weak point, as it afterwards turned out to be, was the crest between us and Blenheim. Considering that both the artillery and musketry fire from both villages swept the slope, and as in numbers we equalled the enemy, it was thought well-nigh impossible for him to cross the swamps and advance to the attack; and almost the whole of the French cavalry were massed on the crest, in order to charge them, should they succeed in crossing and try to ascend the slope. "At first the battle went altogether favourably. We had opposite to us the English, Dutch, Hanoverians, and Danish troops under Marlborough, while facing our left were Prussians, Imperialists, and other German troops under Eugene. Marlborough's Danish and Hanoverian cavalry first crossed, but were at once charged and driven back. Then they tried again, supported by English infantry. Then Marlborough led up a still stronger force, drove back our light cavalry, and began to ascend the hill. We were attacked by ten battalions--Hanoverians, Danes, and Prussians, while the English bore against Blenheim. The fighting at both places was desperate, and I must do the Germans the justice to say that nothing could have exceeded the gallantry they showed, and that, in spite of the heavy fire we maintained, they pressed up the slope. "We remained in our entrenchments, till it could be seen that the English were falling back from Blenheim, whose palisade, manned by twenty-seven battalions of infantry, offered an obstacle that would have defied the best troops in the world to penetrate. "Immediately this was seen, nine battalions, headed by our three regiments, leapt from the trenches and poured down on the Germans. The enemy could not withstand our onslaught. Two of their regiments were utterly destroyed, the rest suffered terribly, and were driven back. On the left, Marcin held his ground against all the attacks of Eugene, and it seemed to us that the battle was won. "However, it was not over yet. While the fierce fighting had been going on in front of Oberglau and Blenheim, Marlborough had passed the whole of his cavalry and the rest of his infantry across the rivulet, and, in spite of artillery and musketry fire, these moved up in grand order, the infantry inclining towards the two villages as before, the cavalry bearing straight up the slope, and, when they reached the crest, charging furiously upon our horse stationed there. They were superior in numbers, but on this head accounts differ. At any rate, they overthrew our cavalry, who fled in the greatest disorder, pursued by the allied horse. "The infantry poured into the gap thus made, Blenheim was entirely isolated, and we were exposed to assault both in front and rear. Nevertheless, we repulsed all attacks, until Marcin sent orders for us to retire; then we sallied out, after setting fire to the village, flung ourselves upon the enemy, and succeeded in cutting our way through, our regiment forming the rear guard. The whole of Marcin's army were now in full retreat, harassed by the allied cavalry; but whenever their squadrons approached us, we faced about and gave them so warm a reception that they attacked less formidable foes. As for the garrison in Blenheim, you know they were at last surrounded by Marlborough's whole force, with artillery; and with the Danube in their rear, and no prospect of succour, they were forced to surrender. "It was a disastrous day, and I have not yet recovered from the wound I received there. Had five thousand infantry been posted in a redoubt, halfway between Blenheim and Oberglau, so as to give support to our cavalry, the result of the battle would have been very different. Still, I suppose that most battles are lost by some unlooked-for accident--some mistake in posting the troops. We can only say that, had the allied forces been all composed of such troops as those Eugene commanded, they would have been beaten decisively; and that had, on the contrary, Eugene commanded such troops as those under Marlborough, Marcin would never have held his ground." "How many British troops were there in the battle, Captain O'Donovan?" "Somewhere about twelve thousand, while the Continental troops were forty-seven or forty-eight thousand. There is no doubt that they were the backbone of the force, just as we flatter ourselves that our three regiments were the backbone of the defence of Oberglau."	{ "id": "18349" }
3	: A Strange Adventure.	When the party broke up, O'Neil and O'Sullivan, as usual, came in for a quiet chat to Desmond's room. "As we may be possibly ordered to Spain," Kennedy said, "I should like to know a little about what we are going to fight about; for, although I know a good deal about the war in Flanders, no news about that in Spain ever reached Kilkargan." "Well, you know, of course," O'Neil said, "that Philip the Fifth is a grandson of Louis; and is naturally supported by France against the Archduke Charles of Austria, who is competitor for the throne, and who is, of course, supported by England. Six thousand English and Dutch troops were sent to aid the Archduke Charles in his attempt to invade Spain and dethrone Philip. The King of Portugal, who is a member of the allied confederacy, promised to have everything ready to cooperate with them. They found, however, on their arrival, that no preparations had been made, and they were accordingly distributed, for a time, among the garrisons on the frontier. "Philip, on his part, had not been so inactive, and two armies--the one commanded by the Duke of Berwick, and the other by General Villadarias--invaded Portugal. Berwick surprised and captured two Dutch battalions, and then captured Portalagre, and compelled the garrison, including an English regiment of infantry, to surrender. "The allies, to make a diversion, sent General Das Minas into Spain, with fifteen thousand men, who captured one or two towns and defeated a body of French and Spanish troops. The hot weather now set in, and put a stop to hostilities, and the troops on both sides went into quarters. The general--I forget his name--who commanded the English and Dutch contingent, was so disgusted with the proceedings of the Portuguese that he resigned his command, and the Earl of Galway was appointed in his place. The next year he crossed the frontier, captured several towns, without much fighting, and invested Badajos. Here, however, a stern resistance was met with. Galway's hand was carried off by a shot, and the French general (Tesse) coming up in force to the relief of the town, and the Portuguese not arriving at all, the allies were obliged to fall back upon Portugal. But Philip was threatened from a fresh quarter. "In June, the Earl of Peterborough sailed from Portsmouth with five thousand men, and at Lisbon took on board the Archduke Charles. At Gibraltar some more troops were embarked, and Peterborough set sail for the coast of Valencia. Peterborough himself, one of the most daring of men, and possessed of extraordinary military talent, was in favour of a march upon Madrid; but, fortunately for us, he was overruled, and commenced the siege of Barcelona--a strong town garrisoned by five thousand good troops, while he himself had but a thousand more under his command. Nevertheless, by a sudden and daring attack he captured the strong castle of Montjuich, which commanded the town, which was in consequence obliged to surrender four days later, and the whole of Catalonia was then captured. Saint Matteo, ninety miles from Barcelona, which had declared for Charles and was besieged by a large force, was relieved; and so brilliant were the exploits accomplished by Peterborough, with most inadequate means, that the Spaniards came to the conclusion that he was possessed by an evil spirit. "Large reinforcements were sent from France, and King Philip advanced upon Barcelona, and invested it by land, while a French fleet bombarded it by sea. Peterborough hurried, with a small force from Valencia, to aid the besieged, the matter being all the more important since Charles himself was in the city. Before his arrival, however, an English fleet appeared, and our fleet retired. "Philip at once raised the siege, and retired to Madrid. His position was indeed serious. Lord Galway was advancing from the frontier, and Peterborough had gathered a force to cooperate with him. Upon the approach of Galway, Philip and the Duke of Berwick retreated to the frontier. There they received great reinforcements, and advanced against Madrid, which was evacuated by Galway, who marched away to form a junction with Lord Peterborough. "Owing to the dilatory habits and hesitation of the Austrian prince, the junction was not effected for some time, and then, in spite of the entreaties of the two English generals, he could not be persuaded to make a movement towards Madrid. Peterborough, whose temper was extremely fiery, at last lost all patience, abused Charles openly, and then, mounting his horse, rode down to the coast, embarked upon an English ship of war, and sailed away to assist the Duke of Savoy. After his departure, the ill feeling between the English force, the Portuguese, and the leaders of the Spanish adherents of Charles increased, and they spent their time in quarrelling among themselves. They were without money, magazines, and almost without provisions. Berwick was near them with a superior force, and they took the only step open, of retreating towards Valencia, which they reached, after suffering great hardships, before Berwick could overtake them. "French troops were poured into Spain, while no reinforcements were sent from England. Galway and the Portuguese advanced to meet the Duke of Berwick, who was marching with a large army to occupy Catalonia. "The two forces met, on the plain of Almanza, on the 24th of April. We and the Spaniards were superior in number to the English, Dutch, and Portuguese. The battle was maintained for six hours. The Portuguese infantry did little, but the English and Dutch repulsed charge after charge, even after the Portuguese and Spanish allies on both wings were defeated. But, in the end, victory remained with us. Galway and Das Minas, the Portuguese general, were both wounded, and five thousand of their men killed, and yet the Dutch and English infantry held together. "But on the following day, being absolutely without supplies, some effected their escape and succeeded in reaching Portugal, while the main body surrendered. Valencia, Saragossa, and other towns opened their gates to us, and, for a time, the cause of the Archduke Charles seemed lost. "Our success was, however, balanced by the loss, in the same year, of the whole of the Spanish possessions in Italy. As yet, in spite of the disasters that had befallen him, the cause of Charles was not altogether lost, for he received fresh promises of support from England, whose interest it was to continue the war in Spain, and thus compel France to keep a considerable body of troops there, instead of employing them against Marlborough in Flanders. "Galway and Das Minas were taken back to Portugal, in an English fleet, after their disaster, and General Stanhope, who, they say, is an officer of great military experience and talent, has been sent out to take the command; and as a portion of Catalonia is still held for Charles, there may yet be a good deal of hard fighting, before the matter can be considered finally settled." "Thank you, O'Neil. I feel that I know something about it, now. Are there any of our regiments there?" "Yes, three of them. There is also an Irish regiment in the Spanish service, under Colonel Crofton;" and with this, the talk ended for the night. After three months' work Desmond was dismissed from drill, and had obtained such a proficiency with the rapier that he felt that he could now relax his work, and see something of the city, which he had been hitherto too busy to explore. He had seen the principal streets, in the company of his comrades, had admired the mansions of the nobles, the richness of the goods exposed to view in the windows, and the gaiety and magnificence of the dresses of the upper class. His friends had warned him that, if he intended to go farther, he should never do so alone, but should take with him his soldier servant, a trooper named Mike Callaghan. Mike was some twenty-eight years old, strong and bony; his hair was red, and the natural colour of his face was obscured by a host of freckles; his eyes were blue, and his nose had an upward turn; his expression was merry and good humoured, but there was a twinkle about his eyes that seemed to show that he was by no means wanting in shrewdness. "Even in the daytime," O'Neil said, "it is not safe for a man, if well dressed and likely to carry money in his pocket, to go into some quarters of the town. Paris has always been a turbulent city, and, while it is the abode of the richest and noblest of Frenchmen, it is also the resort of the rascaldom of all France. Some streets are such that even the city guard would not venture to search for an ill doer, unless in considerable force and prepared for battle. There are, of course, many streets, both on this and the other side of the river, where life and property are as safe as in the Rue Royal; which, by the way, is not saying much, for it was only three days ago that a man was assassinated there in broad daylight. He was a captain in the Picardy regiment, and it was supposed that his murderer was a man who had been dismissed from the regiment with ignominy. But, whoever it was, he has got clear away, for your Parisian citizen takes good care not to interfere in such matters, and no one thought of laying hands on the villain, although it is said he walked quietly off. "It is in the streets that I am speaking of that adventures may most easily be met with. Here there are too many hotels of the nobles, with their numerous retainers, for it to be safe to commit crime, and the city guard are generally on the alert, for, were harm to come to one of the gentlemen attached to the great houses, the matter would be represented to the king, and the city authorities would come in for a sharp reproof for their failure to keep order in the city; whereas, anything that happens among the bourgeois would pass wholly without notice. However, if you keep out of the wine shops, you are not likely to become involved in trouble. Nine-tenths of the quarrels and tumults originate there. There is a dispute, perhaps, between a soldier and a citizen, or between soldiers of different regiments, and in a minute or two twenty swords are drawn, and the disturbance grows, sometimes, until it is necessary to call out troops from the nearest barracks to suppress it. However, I know that you are not likely to get into trouble that way, for you are a very model of moderation, to the corps." "I have seen enough of the consequences of drink in Ireland," Desmond said, "to cure me of any desire for liquor, even had I a love for it. Faction fights, involving the people of the whole barony, arising from some drunken brawl, are common enough; while among the better class duels are common and, for the most part, are the result of some foolish quarrel between two men heated by wine. Besides, even putting that aside, I should have given up the habit. When I joined the regiment, I was anxious to become a good swordsman, but if one's head is overheated at night, one's hand would be unsteady and one's nerves shaken in the morning. "Possibly," he added, with a smile, "it is this, quite as much as the hotness of their temper, that prevents the best teachers from caring to undertake the tuition of the officers of the Brigade." "Possibly," Phelim laughed, "though I never thought of it before. There is no doubt that the French, who, whatever their faults be, are far less given to exceeding a fair allowance of wine than are our countrymen, would come to their morning lessons in the saloon in a better condition to profit by the advice of the master than many of our men." "I don't think," Patrick O'Neil said, "that we Irishmen drink from any particular love of liquor, but from good fellowship and joviality. One can hardly imagine a party of French nobles inflaming themselves with wine, and singing, as our fellows do. Frenchmen are gay in what I may call a feeble way--there is no go in it. There is no spirit in their songs, there is no real heartiness in their joviality, and the idea of one man playing a practical joke upon another, the latter taking it in good part, could never enter their heads, for they are ready to take offence at the merest trifle. "As you know, there are certain cabarets told off for the use of the soldiers of the Brigade. They are allowed to use no others, and no French troops are allowed to enter these wine shops. Similarly, there are certain establishments which are almost exclusively patronized by officers of the Brigade. There is, of course, no absolute rule here, and we can enter any cabaret we choose; but it is understood that it is at our own risk, and that, if we get into trouble there, we are sure to be handled over the coals pretty sharply, as it is considered that we must deliberately have gone there with the intention of picking a quarrel. The cabarets used by the men are all close to the barracks, so that, in case of a fracas, a guard is sent down to bring all concerned in it back to the barracks. Fortunately, there is no need for the places we frequent being so close to the barracks, for it is understood that anyone who takes too much liquor, outside his own quarters, brings discredit on the regiment; and it is after we adjourn to the rooms of one or other of us that liquor begins to flow freely, and we make a night of it." "Don't you ever have quarrels among yourselves?" "Angry words pass, sometimes, but all present interfere at once. The honour of the regiment is the first point with us all. If men want to quarrel, there are plenty of French officers who would be quite ready to oblige them, but a quarrel among ourselves would be regarded as discreditable to the corps. Consequently, a dispute is always stopped before it reaches a dangerous point, and if it goes further than usual, the parties are sent for by the colonel in the morning, both get heavily wigged, and the colonel insists upon the matter being dropped, altogether. As the blood has had time to cool, both are always ready to obey his orders, especially as they know that he would report them at once to the general, if the matter were carried further." "Well, I shall certainly not be likely to get into a quarrel over wine," Desmond said, "nor indeed, in any other way, unless I am absolutely forced into it. As to adventures such as you speak of, I am still less likely to be concerned in them. I hope that, when we are ordered on service, I shall have a full share of adventures such as may become a soldier." O'Neil smiled. "Time will show," he said. "Adventures come without being sought, and you may find yourself in the thick of one, before you have an idea of what you are doing. But mind, if you do get into any adventure and need assistance, you are bound to let us help you. That is the compact we made, two months ago. We agreed to stand by each other, to be good comrades, to share our last sous, and naturally to give mutual aid under all and every circumstance." Desmond nodded. "At any rate, O'Neil, adventures cannot be so common as you represent, since neither of you, so far, has called upon me for aid or assistance." "Have you heard the last piece of court scandal, Kennedy?" O'Sullivan asked, as the three friends sat down to breakfast together, a few days later. "No; what is it?" "Well, it is said that a certain damsel--her name is, at present, a secret--has disappeared." "There is nothing very strange about that," O'Neil laughed. "Damsels do occasionally disappear. Sometimes they have taken their fate into their own hands, and gone off with someone they like better than the man their father has chosen for them; sometimes, again, they are popped into a convent for contumacy. Well, go on, O'Sullivan, that cannot be all." "Well, it is all that seems to be certain. You know that I went with the colonel, last night, to a ball at the Hotel de Rohan, and nothing else was talked about. Several there returned from Versailles in the afternoon, and came back full of it. All sorts of versions are current. That she is a rich heiress goes without saying. If she had not been, her disappearance would have excited no attention whatever. So we may take it that she is an heiress of noble family. Some say that her father had chosen, as her husband, a man she disliked exceedingly, and that she has probably taken refuge in a convent. Some think that she has been carried off bodily, by someone smitten both by her charms and her fortune. It is certain that the king has interested himself much in the matter, and expresses the greatest indignation. Though, as it would not seem that she is a royal ward, it is not clear why he should concern himself over it. Some whisper that the king's anger is but feigned, and that the girl has been carried off by one of his favourites." "Why should such a thing as that be supposed?" Desmond asked, indignantly. "Well, there is something in support of the idea. If anyone else were to steal away, with or without her consent, a young lady of the court with influential friends, he would be likely to pass the first two years of his married life in one of the royal prisons; and therefore none but a desperate man, or one so secure of the king's favour as to feel certain that no evil consequences would befall him, would venture upon such a step. You must remember that there are not a few nobles of the court who have ruined themselves, to keep up the lavish expenditure incumbent upon those who bask in the royal favour at Versailles. It would be possible that His Majesty may have endeavoured to obtain the hand of this young lady for one of his favourites, and that her father may be a noble of sufficient consequence to hold his own, and to express to His Majesty his regret that he was unable to adopt his recommendation, as he had other views for the disposal of her hand. "The real singularity of the matter is, that no one can tell with certainty who the missing lady is. Early in the day half a dozen were named, but as I believe all of these put in an appearance at the reception in the afternoon, it is evident that, so far as they were concerned, there were no foundations for the rumour. It may be taken for certain, however, that her friends are powerful people, to have been able to impose silence upon those acquainted with the facts." "Well, it is impossible to take very much interest in the story," Desmond said carelessly, "when we are in ignorance of the very name of the lady, and of the important point, whether she has voluntarily gone away either with a lover or to a convent, or whether she has been carried off against her will. If the latter, you were talking of adventures, O'Neil, and this would be just the sort of adventure that I should like; for us three to discover the maiden, and rescue her from her abductor." The others both laughed loudly. "And this is the young officer who, the other day, declared that he wished for no adventures save those that came in the course of a campaign, and now he is declaring that he would like to become a very knight errant, and go about rescuing damsels in distress!" "I have no idea of carrying it into execution," Desmond said. "It was merely an expression of a wish. Of course, if the lady in question went willingly and to avoid persecution, I would rather help than hinder her; but if she has been carried off by some ruined courtier, nothing would please me better than to rescue her from him." Several days had passed, and at last it was confidently believed that the missing lady was the daughter of Baron Pointdexter, a magnate of Languedoc, who had but recently come up to court, on an intimation from the king that it was a long time since he had been seen there, and that His Majesty hoped that he would be accompanied by his daughter, of whose beauty reports had reached him. It was certain that neither she nor her father had attended any of the receptions or fetes at Versailles, since the rumour first spread, although the baron had had a private interview with the king a few hours afterwards, and had left his chamber with a frowning brow, that showed that the interview had not been a pleasant one. He had not again appeared at court, whether in consequence of the royal command, or not, no one knew. The baron was one of the richest proprietors in the south of France. He was a specimen of the best type of the French nobles, preferring to spend his time among his own wide estates to coming up to the capital, where his visits had at all times been rare. During the daytime, Desmond went out but little. When the hours of drill and exercise were over, he spent some time in visiting the quarters of the men of his company, making their personal acquaintance, and chatting freely with them. They were glad to hear from him about their native country; and, as some of them came from his own neighbourhood, they took a lively interest in the news--the first that had reached them for years--of families with whom they were acquainted. He spent two or three hours in the afternoons in the salle d'armes of the regiment, or at the schools of one or other of the maitres d'armes most in vogue, and then paid visits, with one or other of the officers of the regiment, to great houses of which they had the entree. Of an evening he went out, accompanied by Mike Callaghan, and wandered about the less fashionable part of the town, which pleased him better than the more crowded and busy quarters. One evening, he had gone farther than usual, had passed through the gates, and had followed the road by the banks of the river. As an officer in uniform, he was able to re-enter the town after the gates were closed, the rules being by no means strict, as, during the reign of Louis the 14th, France, though engaged in frequent wars abroad, was free from domestic troubles. Presently, he passed a lonely house of some size, standing back from the road and surrounded by a high wall. As he did so, he heard a scream in a female voice, followed by angry exclamations from two male voices, while loudly rose a woman's cries for help. "There is bad work of some sort going on in there," he said to Mike. "We had better see what it is all about. Do you go round the wall by the right, and I will go round by the left, and see if there is any way by which we can climb over." They met at the back of the house. The wall was unbroken, save by the gates in front. "The wall is too high for us to climb, Mike," Desmond said. "Even if I stood on your head, I could not reach the top. Let us go round to the front again." They returned, and closely scrutinized the gate. It was not so high as the wall itself, but was fully twelve feet. "I have got a pistol with me, your honour," Mike said. "I have seen doors blown in, by firing a gun through the keyhole." "That would do, if we were sure that there were no bars, Mike; but the chances are that it is barred, as well as locked. Besides, I am sure that we should not be justified in blowing in the door of a private house. It may be that they were the cries of a mad woman. I would rather get over as quietly as possible." "Well, sir, I will stand against it, and if you will get on to my shoulders and put your foot on my head, you will reach the top. Then, if you lower one end of your sash to me, I can pull myself up beside you." "Yes, I think we can manage it that way, Mike. I am convinced that there is something wrong going on here, and I don't mind taking the risk of getting into a scrape by interfering. Now do you stoop a bit, so that I can get on to your shoulder; then you can raise yourself to your full height. Take off your hat, first. I shall certainly have to put my foot on your head." "All right, your honour. Don't you be afraid of hurting me. My skull is thick enough to stand the weight of two of you." In a minute, Desmond had his fingers on the top of the gates, drew himself up, and, moving to the corner, where he could get his back against the end of the wall, lowered his sash to Mike. "You are sure I shall not pull you down?" "I am not sure, but we will try, anyhow." This was said in a whisper, for there might, for anything he knew, be two or three men in the garden. Mike took off his boots, so as to avoid making a noise. Desmond was sitting astride of the gate, and had his end of the sash over the top of it, and under his leg, thereby greatly reducing the strain that would be thrown on it, and then leaning with all his weight on it, where it crossed the gate. Mike was an active as well as a strong man, and speedily was by his side. "Now we will drop down," Desmond said, and, setting the example, lowered himself till he hung by his hands, and then dropped. Mike was soon beside him. "What shall we do next?" "We will go and knock boldly at the door; but before we do that, we will unbar the gate and shoot the bolt of the lock. We have no idea how many men there may be in the house. Maybe we shall have to beat a retreat." The lock was shot without difficulty, but the bolts were still fast, and were not drawn without noise. They pushed back the last of these, and then opened the gates, which creaked noisily as they did so. "They can hardly help hearing that," Desmond muttered; and indeed, as he spoke, the door of the house opened suddenly, and five men came out, two of them holding torches. A man, who seemed to be the leader of the party, uttered an exclamation of fury as the light fell upon the figures of the two men at the open gate. "Cut the villains down!" he shouted. "Stop!" Desmond cried, in a loud voice. "I am an officer of O'Brien's regiment of foot. I heard a scream, and a woman's cry for help, and, fearing that foul play was going on, I made my entry here." The man, who had drawn his sword, paused. "You have done wrong, sir. The cries you heard were those of a mad woman. You had better withdraw at once. I shall report you, tomorrow, for having forcibly made an entrance into private premises." "That you are perfectly at liberty to do," Desmond replied quietly; "but certainly I shall not withdraw, until I see this lady, and ascertain from herself whether your story is a true one." "Then your blood be on your own head!" the man said. "At them, men! you know your orders--to kill anyone who attempted to interfere with us, no matter what his rank." The five men rushed together upon the intruders. "Hold the gate, Mike," Desmond said, "and they cannot get behind us." They stepped back a pace or two, and drew their swords. The position was a favourable one, for the two halves of the gate opened inwards, and so protected them from any but an attack in front. The leader rushed at Desmond, but the latter guarded the sweeping blow he dealt at him, and at the first pass ran him through the body; but the other four men, enraged rather than daunted by the fall of their leader, now rushed forward together, and one of them, drawing a pistol, fired at Desmond when within three paces. The latter threw his head on one side, as he saw the pistol levelled. The action saved his life, for it was well aimed, and the bullet would have struck him full between the eyes. As it was, he felt a sharp sudden pain, as it grazed his cheek deeply. He sprang forward, and before the man could drop the pistol and change his sword from the left hand to the right, Desmond's weapon pierced his throat. At the same moment, Mike cut down one of his assailants with his sabre, receiving, however, a severe cut on the left shoulder from the other. Paralysed at the loss of three of their number, the remaining two of the assailants paused, for a moment. It was fatal to one of them, for Mike snatched his pistol from his pocket, and shot the man who had wounded him, dead. The other threw down his sword, and fell upon his knees, crying for mercy. "Shall I kill him, your honour?" "No. Fasten his hands behind him, with his own belt; and bind his ankles tightly together, with that of one of his comrades." He paused, while Mike adroitly carried out his instructions. "Now we will see what this is all about," Desmond said. "I don't suppose that there are any more of them in the house. Still, we may as well keep our swords in readiness." Picking up one of the torches that had fallen from their assailants' hands, and holding it above his head with his left hand, while his right held his sword ready for action, Desmond entered the house. The sitting rooms on both sides of the hall were empty, but, upon entering the kitchen, he found an old woman crouching in a corner, in the extremity of fear. "Stand up. I am not going to hurt you," Desmond said. "Lead us, at once, to the chamber of the lady we heard call out." The old woman rose slowly, took down a key hanging from a peg, and, leading the way upstairs, opened a door. "Keep a watch upon the crone," Desmond said, as he entered. As he did so, his eye fell upon a girl of some seventeen years old. She was standing at the window, with her hands clasped. She turned round as he entered, and, as her eye fell upon his uniform, she gave a cry of delight. "Ah, monsieur, you have rescued me! I heard the fight in the garden, and knew that the good God had sent someone to my aid. But you are wounded, sir. Your face is streaming with blood." " 'Tis but the graze of a pistol ball," he said, "and needs but a bowl of water, and a strip of plaster, to put it right. I had well-nigh forgotten it. "I am glad, indeed, to have been able to render you this service, mademoiselle. It was most providential that I happened to come along the road, and heard your screams and cries for aid; and I determined to see if any foul business was being carried on here. What made you call out?" "I had let myself down from the window, by knotting the bedclothes together. I was blindfolded, when they carried me in here, and did not know that the walls were so high all round, but had hoped to find some gate by which I might escape. There were only the great gates, and these were locked; and I was trying to draw the bolts when two of the men suddenly rushed out. I suppose the old woman came up here, and found the room empty. It was then that I screamed for help, but they dragged me in, in spite of my struggles, and one said I might scream as much as I liked, for there was not a house within hearing, and no one would be passing anywhere near. "When he said that, I quite gave up hope. I had believed that I was in some lonely house, in the suburbs of the city, and I little thought that my cries could not be heard. "But where are the men who guarded me?" "Four of them are dead, mademoiselle, and the other securely bound. Now, if you will tell me who you are, and where your friends live, I and my soldier servant will escort you to them." "My name is Anne de Pointdexter." Desmond was scarcely surprised, for the care which had been taken in choosing so lonely a spot for her concealment, and the fact that an officer and four men should be placed there to guard her, showed that she must have been regarded as a prisoner of importance. "Then I am glad, indeed, to have been the means of rescuing you. All Paris has been talking of your disappearance, for the past ten days. The question is, what would you wish done? It is too far to take you to Versailles tonight, and too late to obtain means of conveyance." "There is a carriage in the stables behind the house, and there are some horses. I cannot say how many, but at night I have heard them stamping. I suppose the carriage was left here so that they could remove me to some other place, in case suspicion should fall upon this house. How many are there of you, monsieur?" "Only myself, and the trooper you see at the door." "And did you two fight with five men, and kill four of them!" she exclaimed, in surprise. "How brave of you, monsieur, and how good to run such risk, for a person of whom you knew nothing!" "I knew that it was a woman in distress," Desmond said, "and that was quite enough to induce two Irishmen to step in, and answer to her cry for aid. However, mademoiselle, if the carriage and horses are there, this will get us out of our difficulty. The only question is, will you start at once, or wait until daylight? We may be stopped by the patrols, as we approach Versailles, but I have no doubt that my uniform will suffice to pass us into the town, where probably your father is still lodging." "I would much rather go at once," the girl said. "There are others who come, sometimes at all hours of the night." "Very well, then, we will see about getting the carriage ready, at once. If you will come downstairs, we will lock this old woman up in your room." This was done at once, and the girl, who was so shaken by her captivity that she feared to remain for a moment by herself, accompanied her rescuers to the back of the house. Here, as she had said, they found a carriage and four horses, two of which stood ready saddled, while the others were evidently carriage horses. These were speedily harnessed, and put into the carriage. "Now, Mike, you had better drive. I will mount one of these saddle horses and ride alongside. I think, mademoiselle, as the drive will be a long one, it would be as well that we should put the old woman in the carriage with you. She will be a companion, though one that you would not take from choice. Still, your father may wish to question her, and, indeed, it would be better in many respects that you should have a female with you." "Thank you, Monsieur Kennedy,"--for she had already learned his name--she said gratefully, "it would certainly be much better." The old woman was therefore brought down, and made to enter the carriage, and seat herself facing Mademoiselle Pointdexter. Mike took his seat on the box, and Desmond mounted one of the saddle horses, and led the other. They had already removed the bodies that lay in front of the gates. They had to make a considerable detour round Paris, before they came down upon the Versailles road. The roads were bad and the carriage was heavy, and daylight was already breaking when they entered the town. They had twice been stopped by patrols, but Desmond's uniform had sufficed to pass them. Baron Pointdexter had taken up his abode in a large house, standing in a walled garden in the lower part of the town. When they reached it, Desmond dismounted and rung the bell. After he had done this several times, a step was heard in the garden, and a voice asked roughly, "Who is it that rings at this hour of the morning?" Mademoiselle Pointdexter, who had alighted as soon as the carriage stopped, called out, "It is I, Eustace." There was an exclamation of surprise and joy, bolts were at once drawn, and the gate thrown open, and an old servitor threw himself on his knees as the girl entered, and, taking the hand she held out to him, put it to his lips. "Ah, mademoiselle," he said, while the tears streamed down his cheeks, "what a joyful morning it is! We have all suffered, and monsieur le baron most of all. He has spoken but a few words, since you left, but walks up and down the garden as one distraught, muttering to himself, and sometimes even drawing his sword and thrusting it at an invisible enemy. He is up, mademoiselle. He has never gone to his bed since you were missing." As he spoke, the door of the house opened, and the baron hurried out, with the question, "What is it, Eustace?" Then, as his eye fell on his daughter, he gave a hoarse cry, and for a moment swayed, as if he would have fallen. His daughter ran up to him, and threw her arms round his neck. "Do you return to me safe and well?" he asked, as, after a long embrace, he stepped back and gazed into her face. "Quite safe and well, father." "The Lord be praised!" the baron exclaimed, and, dropping into a garden seat by his side, he burst into a passion of sobbing. As soon as he had appeared, Desmond had handed over the old woman to Eustace. "She is a prisoner--keep a watch over her," he said. "She can tell much. We will take the carriage round to a stable, and must then return at once to Paris, where I must be on duty at seven. Please inform the baron that I shall do myself the honour of calling, tomorrow, to enquire whether Mademoiselle Pointdexter has suffered from the effects of the fatigue and excitement. Express my regret that I am obliged to leave at once, but I am sure he will have so much to hear, from his daughter, that it is best they should be alone together, for a time." He at once remounted his horse, Mike climbed up on to his seat, and they drove off, and, knocking up the people at some large stables, left the carriage and horses there, telling the proprietors to send to the Baron Pointdexter to know his wishes regarding it. Then Mike mounted the spare horse, and they started at full speed for Paris, and arrived at the barracks in time for Desmond to take his place at the early parade.	{ "id": "18349" }
4	: At Versailles.	The regiment was on the point of falling in, on the parade ground, when Desmond Kennedy rode up. Leaping from his horse, he threw the reins to his servant. "Take them both round to the stables, and put them in spare stalls, Mike. I will get leave off parade for both of us, and ask the surgeon to dress your wounds properly." Then he went up to the colonel, who was just entering the barrack yard. "Colonel O'Brien," he said, "I must ask your leave off parade, for, as you see, I am scarcely in a condition to take my place with my company." "So it would seem, Mr. Kennedy. You have been in trouble, I see. Nothing serious, I hope?" "Nothing at all, sir, as far as I am concerned. It is merely a graze from a pistol ball." "Well, I must hear about it, afterwards." "I must also ask leave off parade for Callaghan, my servant, sir. He is hurt a good deal more than I am, though not, I hope, seriously." The colonel nodded. "I will send the surgeon to your quarters, and he will see to you both." As Desmond left the colonel, his two chums came up. "Why, Kennedy, what on earth have you been doing to yourself? This is what comes of gallivanting about after dark. When we came round, yesterday evening, to go out with you as usual, you were not in. There was nothing very unusual in that, for these evening walks of yours are often prolonged; but we called again, on our return at eleven o'clock, and found you were still absent. This looked serious. We came round again at six this morning, for we were anxious about you, and learned you had not been in all night, and, on enquiring, heard that Callaghan was also absent. "That was cheering. That you might get into some scrape or other, we could reasonably believe; but, as you had your man with you, we could hardly suppose that misfortune had fallen upon both of you." "The wound is a mere graze. I will tell you, after parade, what I have been doing," Desmond said, "but you must nurse your curiosity till you are dismissed." A few minutes after Desmond reached his quarters, the surgeon came in. "I do not think that I have any need of your services, doctor. I got a piece of plaster, and stuck it on two hours ago, and I have no doubt that the wound will heal in a few days." "However, I will, with your permission, take it off, Mr. Kennedy. It is much better that the wound should be properly washed, and some dressing applied to it. It will heal all the quicker, and you are less likely to have an ugly scar. "It is a pretty deep graze," he said, after he had carefully removed the plaster. "An eighth of an inch farther, and it would have made your teeth rattle. You had better keep quiet, today. Tomorrow morning, if there is no sign of inflammation, I will take off the dressing and bandage and put on a plaster--one a third of the size that I took off will be sufficient; and as I will use a pink plaster, it will not be very noticeable, if you go outside the barracks. "Where is your man? The colonel told me there were two patients. "A nasty cut," he said, after examining Mike's wound. "It is lucky that it was not a little higher. If it had been, you would have bled to death in five minutes. As it is, it is not serious. You will have to keep your arm in a sling for a fortnight. You are not to attend parade, or mount a horse, until I give you leave." On the ride from Versailles, Desmond had warned Mike to say no word as to the events of the night. "I do not know what course the young lady's father may take," he said, "and until I do, the matter had better be kept a secret, altogether." "I will keep a quiet tongue in my head, and no one shall hear anything, from me, as to how I got this slice on my shoulder. I will just say that it was a bit of a scrimmage I got into, with two or three of the street rascals; and the thing is so common that no one is likely to ask any further questions about it." After the parade was over, O'Neil and O'Sullivan came up to Desmond's quarters. "Now, Master Kennedy, we have come to receive your confession. We gave you credit for being a quiet, decent boy, and now it seems that you and that man of yours have been engaged in some disreputable riot, out all night, and coming in on two strange horses, which, for aught we know, have been carried off by force of arms." Desmond laughed. "As to the horses, you are not so far wrong as one might expect, O'Neil. We rode them this morning from Versailles." "From Versailles!" O'Neil repeated. "And what, in the name of all the saints, took you to Versailles! I am afraid, Desmond, that you are falling into very evil courses. "Well, tell us all about it. I shall be glad to be able to believe that there is some redeeming feature in this strange business." Desmond laughed, and then said, more seriously, "Well, I have had an adventure. Other people were concerned in it, as well as myself. I have made up my mind to tell you both, because I know that I can depend upon your promises to keep it an absolute secret." "This sounds mysterious indeed," O'Sullivan said. "However, you have our promises. O'Neil and I will be as silent as the grave." "Well, then, you know how you were chaffing me, the other day, about finding Mademoiselle Pointdexter?" "You don't mean to say that you have found her, Kennedy?" O'Neil exclaimed incredulously. "That is what I mean to say, though found is hardly the word, since I was not looking for her, or even thinking of her, at the time. Still, in point of fact, I accidentally came across the place where she was hidden away, and after a sharp skirmish, in which Callaghan and I each had to kill two men, we carried her off, and delivered her safely to her father this morning." The two young officers looked hard at Desmond, to discover if he was speaking seriously, for his tone was so quiet, and matter of fact, that they could scarce credit that he had passed through such an exciting adventure; and the three were so accustomed to hoax each other, that it struck them both as simply an invention on the part of their comrade, so absolutely improbable did it seem to them. "Sure you are trying to hoax us, Kennedy," O'Sullivan said. "You could not blame me, if I were," Desmond said, with a smile, "considering the cock-and-bull stories that you are constantly trying to palm off on me. However, you are wrong now. I will tell you the affair, just as it happened." And he related, in detail, the story of the rescue of Mademoiselle Pointdexter, and the manner in which he had conveyed her to Versailles. "By Saint Bridget, Kennedy, we were not far wrong when we called you a knight errant. Well, this is something like an adventure, though whether it will end well or ill for you I cannot say. Did you learn the name of the person who had the girl carried off?" "No. I asked no questions, and indeed had but little conversation with her; for, as I have told you, I put her in a carriage, with the old hag who was in charge of her, and rode myself by the side of it, in case the old woman should try to escape." "A truly discreet proceeding, Kennedy," O'Neil laughed. "I think, if I myself had been in your place, I should have taken a seat inside also, where you, of course, could at once have watched the old woman, and talked with the young one." "I don't think that you would have done anything of the sort, O'Neil," Desmond said gravely, "but would have seen, as I did, that it was better that she should travel alone, with the old woman, till she reached her father's house. Scandal will be busy enough with her name, in any case, and it is as well that it should not be said that she arrived home, in a carriage, with a young officer of O'Brien's Irish regiment." "By my faith, Kennedy, it seems to me that you are a Saint Anthony and a Bayard rolled into one. But, seriously, you are undoubtedly right. Well, it all depends upon who was the man who carried her off, as to whether you were fortunate or unfortunate in thus having thwarted his designs. If he is some adventurer, your action will gain you heaps of credit. If, on the other hand, it was one of the king's favourites, seeking to mend his fortunes by marrying, it is probable that you will have made a dangerous enemy--nay, more, have drawn upon yourself the king's displeasure. I should think it likely that, before attempting so desperate an action as the carrying off of the Baron Pointdexter's daughter, such a man would have assured himself that the king would not view the enterprise with displeasure. "We may assume that he would not inform His Majesty of any particulars, but would put it, hypothetically, that as he was getting into sore straits, he thought of mending his fortunes by carrying off an heiress--not, of course, one of those of whose hands the king had the disposal; and that he trusted that, if he succeeded, His Majesty would not view the matter as a grave offence. From what I know of Louis, he would reply gravely: 'I should be obliged (duke or viscount, as the case might be) to express very grave displeasure, and to order you to leave the court for a time; but, as the harm would be done, and the young lady married to you, it might be that, in time, I should pardon the offence.' "If this is how things have gone, you may be sure that the king will not view, with satisfaction, the man who has interfered with his favourite's plan for mending his fortunes." Desmond shrugged his shoulders. "The king's dissatisfaction would matter very little to me," he said, "especially as he could not openly manifest it, without making it apparent that he had approved of the scheme." "It is not such a trifle as you think, Kennedy. Lettres de cachet are not difficult to obtain, by powerful members of the court; especially when the person named is a young regimental officer, whose disappearance would excite no comment or curiosity, save among the officers of his own regiment. The man who carried off Mademoiselle Pointdexter must be a bold fellow, and is likely to be a vindictive one. No doubt, his object was to keep the young lady a prisoner, until she agreed to marry him, and the loss of a pretty bride with a splendid fortune is no trifling one, and likely to be bitterly resented. Whether that resentment will take the form of obtaining an order for your confinement in the Bastille, or other royal prison, or of getting you put out of the way by a stab in the back, I am unable to say, but in any case, I should advise you strongly to give up your fancy for wandering about after dark; and when you do go out, keep in the frequented portions of the town. "Jack Farquharson, who was at Versailles with the colonel last week, was speaking of Mademoiselle Pointdexter, and said that she was charming. Did you find her so?" "I thought nothing about it, one way or the other," Desmond said, carelessly. "I only saw her face by torchlight, and she was, of course, agitated by what had happened; and indeed, as I was busy helping Mike to yoke the horses to the carriage, I had scarcely time to look at her. When we reached Versailles it was barely daylight. I handed her out of the carriage, and left her to enter by herself, as I thought it was better that she should meet her father alone. I do not think that I should recognize her, were I to meet her in the street." "Most insensible youth!" O'Sullivan said, with a laugh; "insensible and discreet to a point that, were it not assured, none would believe that you had Irish blood in your veins. And so, you say you are going over to Versailles tomorrow?" "Yes. I left a message with the servant who opened the door, to that effect. Of course, I shall be glad to know if the baron intends to take any steps against his daughter's abductor, or whether he thinks it best not to add to the scandal by stirring up matters, but to take her away at once to his estates." "He is in a difficult position," O'Neil said gravely. "The young lady has been missing for a fortnight. No one knows whether she went of her own free will, or against it. Were her father to carry her off, quietly, it would excite the worst suspicions. Better by far lodge his complaint before the king, proclaim his grievances loudly everywhere, and tell the story in all its details. Whichever course he takes, evil-minded people will think the worse; but of the two evils, the latter seems to me to be the lesser." "I suppose it would be," Desmond agreed, "though, for my part, I should be heartily glad if I never heard another word about it." "You are too modest altogether, Kennedy. Whatever rumours may be current, concerning the young lady, there can be no doubt that you come out splendidly, in that you hear a cry of a woman in distress; you scale walls to get in to her assistance; you and your servant encounter five of her guards, kill four of them and bind the other; rescue the maiden, and carry her off, with flying colours, in the carriage of her abductor. My dear Kennedy, you will become an object of admiration to all the ladies of the court." "That will be absolutely disgusting," Desmond said, angrily. "It is almost enough to make one wish that one had never interfered in the affair." "Pooh, pooh, Kennedy! I am sure that either O'Sullivan or myself would give, I was going to say a year's pay, though how one would exist without it I don't know, to have been in your place. Why, man, if you had captured a standard in battle, after feats of superhuman bravery, you would not attract half the attention that will fall to you as a consequence of this adventure. Life in the court of His Most Christian Majesty is one of the most artificial possible. The women hide their faces with powder and patches, lace themselves until they are ready to faint, walk with a mincing air, and live chiefly upon scandal; but they are women, after all, and every woman has a spice of romance in her nature, and such an adventure as yours is the very thing to excite their admiration." "I know nothing about women," Desmond growled, "and don't want to know any of them, especially the ladies at the court of Louis." "Well, of course, Kennedy, if the baron proclaims his wrongs, and publishes the circumstances of his daughter's abduction and rescue, the seal of silence will be taken from our lips; especially as you will, almost to a certainty, be summoned to Versailles to confirm the lady's story." "I am afraid that that will be so," Desmond said, despondingly. "However, it can't be helped, and I suppose one must make the best of it." To most of the officers who dropped in, in the course of the day, to see Desmond and to enquire how he got his wound, he abstained from giving any particulars. It was merely said that he and Callaghan were suddenly attacked, by five ruffians, whom they managed to beat off. Much surprise was expressed that such attack should be made upon an officer and a soldier, on whom little plunder could be expected, and who would be sure to defend themselves stoutly. Several, indeed, expressed some incredulity. "We do not doubt for a moment, Kennedy, that you were attacked by five men, as you say, and that you routed them, but there must have been some motive for the attack. These evening strolls of yours are suspicious, and I will warrant that there must have been a great deal at the bottom of it. Now, can you deny that?" "I neither admit nor deny anything," Desmond said, with a smile; "enough that, at present, I have told you all that I feel justified in telling. I acknowledge that there is more behind it, but at present my mouth is sealed on the subject." The colonel was among those who came in to see him. To him, Desmond said frankly that the affair was altogether out of the common, that it was likely that the whole facts would be known shortly, but that, as other persons were concerned, he could not speak of it until he had obtained their permission. "Then I will ask no further," Colonel O'Brien said. "I have seen enough of you to know that you would not be concerned in any affair that could bring discredit upon the corps. I am curious to know the whole story, but am quite content to wait until you feel at liberty to tell me." The next morning, Desmond took part in the usual work of the regiment, and then, mounting his horse, rode to Versailles. On his ringing the bell at the house occupied by the Baron de Pointdexter, the old servitor, whom he had before seen, opened the gate. "The baron is expecting you, monsieur," he said, bowing deeply; and, at his call, another servant ran out and took Desmond's horse, and led it away to the stable, while Desmond followed the old man to the house. The door opened as they approached, and the baron, a tall man, some fifty years of age, advanced hastily, holding out both hands. "Monsieur Kennedy," he said, "you have rendered to me the greatest service that I have received during my life. No words can express the gratitude that I feel, for one who has restored to me my only child, just when I had come to believe that she was lost to me forever. It was surely her guardian saint who sent you to the spot, at that moment." "It might have happened to anyone, sir," Desmond said; "surely any gentleman, on hearing an appeal for help from a woman in distress, would have done just what I did." "Let us go in," the baron said. "My daughter has been eagerly waiting your coming, especially as she tells me that she does not think she said even a word of thanks to you, being overpowered by what she had gone through, and by her joy at her sudden and unexpected deliverance. Indeed, she says that she scarcely exchanged two words with you." "There was no opportunity, Baron, for indeed, as soon as she told me that there was a carriage and horses in the stable, I was too much occupied in getting it ready for her to depart without delay, to think of talking." They had now entered the house, and, as the baron led the way into the sitting room, the girl rose from a fauteuil. "This, Monsieur Kennedy, is my daughter, Mademoiselle Anne de Pointdexter. It is high time that you were formally presented to each other. "This, Anne, is the officer who rendered you such invaluable service." "We meet almost as strangers, mademoiselle," Desmond said, deeply bowing, "for I own that I saw so little of your face, the other night, that I should hardly have recognized you, had I met you elsewhere." "I should certainly not have recognized you, Monsieur Kennedy. What with my own fright, and, I may say, the condition of your face, I had but a faint idea of what you were really like; but I certainly did not think that you were so young. You had such a masterful way with you, and seemed to know so perfectly what ought to be done, that I took you to be much older than you now look." "I joined the regiment but little more than three months ago," Desmond said, "and am its youngest ensign." "Monsieur, I owe to you more than my life, for, had it not been for you, I should have been forced into marriage with one whom I despise." "I cannot think that, mademoiselle. From what I saw of you, I should say that you would have resisted all threats, and even undergone hopeless imprisonment, rather than yield." "There is no saying, Monsieur Kennedy," the baron said. "Anne is of good blood, and I know that it would have been hard to break down her will, but confinement and hopelessness will tell on the bravest spirit. However that may be, she and I are your debtors for life." "Indeed, Monsieur Kennedy," the girl said, "I pray you to believe that I am more grateful to you than words can express." "I pray you to say no more about it, mademoiselle. I deem it a most fortunate circumstance, that I was able to come to your assistance, and especially so, when I found that the lady I had rescued was one whose disappearance had made so great a stir; but I should have been glad to render such service to one in the poorest condition." "My daughter said that you asked her no questions, Monsieur Kennedy, and you therefore are, I suppose, in ignorance of the name of her abductor?" "Altogether." "It was the Vicomte de Tulle, one who stands very high in the regard of the king, and who is one of the most extravagant and dissipated, even of the courtiers here. For some time, it has been reported that he had nigh ruined himself by his lavish expenditure, and doubtless he thought to reestablish his finances by this bold stroke. "His plans were well laid. He waited until I had gone to Paris on business that would keep me there for a day or two. A messenger arrived with a letter, purporting to be from me, saying that I wished my daughter to join me at once, and had sent a carriage to take her to me. Anne is young, and, suspecting no harm, at once threw on a mantle and hood, and entered the carriage. It was broad daylight, and there was nothing to disquiet her until, on approaching the town, the carriage turned off the main road. This struck her as strange, and she was just about to ask the question where she was being taken, when the carriage stopped in a lonely spot, the door was opened, and a man stepped in. "Before she had even time to recognize him, he threw a thick cloak over her head. She struggled in vain to free herself, but he held her fast. Again and again, she tried to cry out, but her mouth was muffled by the wrapping. She had heard the blinds of the carriage drawn, and finding that her struggles to free herself were vain, and receiving no answer to her supplications to be released, she remained quiet until the carriage stopped. Then she was lifted out, and carried into the house where you found her. "The wrapping was removed, and the man who had taken it off, and, who by his attire, was a gentleman in the service of some noble, said, 'Do not be alarmed, mademoiselle. No harm is intended to you. My master is grieved to be obliged to adopt such means, but his passion for you is so great that he was driven to this step, and it will entirely depend upon yourself when your captivity will end.' " 'Your master, whoever he may be,' Anne said, 'is a contemptible villain.' " 'Naturally, you have a poor opinion of him at present,' the fellow said; 'but I am convinced that, in time, you will come to excuse his fault. It is wholly due to the depth of the feeling that he entertains towards you. There is a woman here who will wait upon you. I and my men will not intrude. Our duty is solely to see that you do not escape, which indeed would be an impossibility for you, seeing that the wall that surrounds the garden is well-nigh fifteen feet high, and the gate barred and locked, and the key thereof in my pocket.' "He called, and the old woman whom you brought here with Anne entered, and bid her ascend to the room that had been prepared for her. "In that respect, she had nothing to complain of. Of course, you did not notice it, as you had other things to think of, but it was handsomely furnished. There was a bed in an alcove, some flowers on the table, some books, and even a harpsichord--evidently it was intended that her imprisonment should be made as light as might be. "Looking from the window, Anne saw that the room was at the back of the house, and had probably been chosen because some trees shut the window off from view of anyone beyond the wall. The next day, the old woman announced the Vicomte de Tulle. He bowed profoundly, and began by excusing the step that he had taken, and crediting it solely to the passion that he had conceived for her. You may imagine the scorn and reproaches with which she answered him. He was quite unmoved by her words. " 'Mademoiselle,' he said calmly, when she paused, 'you may be sure that I should not have undertaken this scheme, unless I had fully weighed the consequences. My plans have been so laid that whatever search may be made for you will be in vain. Here you are, and here you will remain until you listen to my suit. Every want shall be satisfied, and every wish complied with; but, whether it is one year or five, you will not leave this house until you leave it as my bride.' " 'Then, sir,' she said passionately, 'I shall be a prisoner for life.' " 'So you may think, at present, mademoiselle,' he said. 'And I expected nothing else. But, with time and reflection, you may come to think otherwise. Union with me is not so terrible a matter. My rank you know, and standing high, as I do, in the favour of His Most Gracious Majesty, your position at court will be such as might gratify the daughter of the noblest family in France. The study of my life will be to make you happy. " 'I shall now leave you to think over the matter. I shall not pester you with my attentions, and for another month you will not see me again. At the end of that time, I trust that you will have seen the futility of condemning yourself to further captivity, and will be disposed to make more allowance, than at present, for the step to which my passion for yourself has driven me.' "It was just a month since she had been carried off, and, the very day when you rescued her, the old woman had informed her that the vicomte would do himself the pleasure of calling upon her the next day. For the first fortnight she had held up bravely, in the hope that I should discover the place where she had been hidden. Then she began to feel the imprisonment and silence telling upon her, for the old woman only entered to bring in her meals, and never opened her lips, except on the first occasion, when she told her that she was strictly forbidden to converse with her. After that she began to despair, and the news that her abductor would visit her, the next day, decided her to make an attempt to escape. She had no difficulty in letting herself down from the window by the aid of her bedclothes, but she found that what had been said respecting the wall and gate was true, and that she was no nearer escape than she had been, before she had left her room. She was trying, in vain, to unbar the gate, which, indeed, would have been useless could she have accomplished it, as it was also locked. But she was striving, with the energy of desperation, when the door of the house opened, and the men rushed out and seized her. As they dragged her back to the house, she uttered the cries that brought you to her assistance. The rest you know. "As soon as I heard her story, I went to the palace and asked for a private interview with the king. The king received me graciously enough, and asked, with an appearance of great interest, if I had obtained any news of my daughter. " 'I have more than obtained news, Your Majesty. I have my daughter back again, and I have come to demand justice at your hands.' " 'I congratulate you, indeed, Baron,' the king said, with an appearance of warmth, but I saw his colour change, and was convinced that he knew something, at least, of the matter. " 'And where has the damsel been hiding herself?' he went on. " 'She has not been hiding herself, at all, Sire,' I said. 'She has been abducted, by one of Your Majesty's courtiers, with the intention of forcing her into a marriage. His name, Sire, is the Vicomte de Tulle, and I demand that justice shall be done me, and that he shall receive the punishment due to so gross an outrage.' "The king was silent for a minute, and then said: "'He has, indeed, if you have been rightly informed, acted most grossly. Still, it is evident that he repented the step that he took, and so suffered her to return to you.' " 'Not so, Your Majesty,' I said. 'I owe her return to no repentance on his part, but to the gallantry of a young officer who, passing the house where she was confined, heard her cries for aid, and, with his soldier servant, climbed the gate of the enclosure, and was there attacked by the man who had charge of her, with four others. The young gentleman and his servant killed four of them, and bound the other; and then, entering the house, compelled the woman who had been appointed to act as her servant to lead the way to her chamber. Fortunately, the carriage in which she had been taken there was still in the stables, with its horses. The gallant young gentleman at once got the carriage in readiness, placed my daughter in it, with the woman who had been attending on her. The servant drove, and he rode by the side of the carriage, and in that way brought her home this morning.' "In spite of his efforts to appear indifferent, it was evident that the king was greatly annoyed. However, he only said: "'You did quite right to come to me, Baron. It is outrageous, indeed, that a young lady of my court should be thus carried off, and I will see that justice is done. And who is this officer, who has rendered your daughter such a service?' " 'His name is Kennedy, Sire. He is an ensign in O'Brien's Irish regiment.' " 'I will myself send for him,' he said, 'and thank him for having defeated this disgraceful plot of the Vicomte de Tulle. I suppose you are quite sure of all the circumstances, as you have told them to me?' " 'It is impossible that there can be any mistake, Sire,' I said. 'In the first place, I have my daughter's account. This is entirely corroborated by the old woman she had brought with her, and whose only hope of escaping from punishment lay in telling the truth. In every respect, she fully confirmed my daughter's account.' " 'But the vicomte has not been absent from Versailles, for the past month. He has been at my morning levee, and on all other occasions at my breakfasts and dinners. He has walked with me in the gardens, and been always present at the evening receptions.' " 'That is so, Sire,' I said. 'My daughter, happily, saw him but once; namely, on the morning after she was captured. He then told her, frankly, that she would remain a prisoner until she consented to marry him, however long the time might be. He said he would return in a month, and hoped by that time to find that, seeing the hopelessness of her position, she would be more inclined to accept his suit. " 'It was on the eve of his coming again that my daughter, in her desperation, made the attempt to escape. She was foiled in her effort, but this, nevertheless, brought about her rescue, for her cries, as her guards dragged her into the house, attracted the attention of Monsieur Kennedy, who forthwith, as I have told you, stormed the house, killed her guards, and brought her home to me.' "The king then sent for de Tulle, and spoke to him with great sternness. The latter did not attempt to deny my accusation, but endeavoured to excuse himself, on the ground of the passion that he had conceived for my daughter. Certainly, from the king's tone, I thought that he would at least have sent him to the Bastille; but, to my great disappointment, he wound up his reproof by saying: "'I can, of course, make some allowances for your passion for so charming a young lady as Mademoiselle Pointdexter, but the outrage you committed is far too serious to be pardoned. You will at once repair to your estates, and will remain there during my pleasure.' "The vicomte bowed and withdrew, and, an hour later, left Versailles. The king turned to me, as he left the room, and said, 'I trust, Monsieur le Baron, that you are content that justice has been done.' "I was too angry to choose my words, and I said firmly, 'I cannot say that I am content, Your Majesty. Such an outrage as that which has been perpetrated upon my daughter deserves a far heavier punishment than banishment from court; and methinks that an imprisonment, as long as that which he intended to inflict upon her unless she consented to be his wife, would have much more nearly met the justice of the case.' "The king rose to his feet suddenly, and I thought that my boldness would meet with the punishment that I desired for de Tulle; but he bit his lips, and then said coldly: "'You are not often at court, Baron Pointdexter, and are doubtless ignorant that I am not accustomed to be spoken to, in the tone that you have used. However, I can make due allowance for the great anxiety that you have suffered, at your daughter's disappearance. I trust that I shall see you and your daughter at my levee, this evening.' "As this was a command, of course we went, and I am bound to say that the king did all in his power to show to his court that he considered her to be wholly blameless. Of course, the story had already got about, and it was known that the vicomte had been ordered to his estates. The king was markedly civil to Anne, talked to her for some time, expressed his deep regret that she should have been subject to such an outrage, while staying at his court, and said, in a tone loud enough to be heard by all standing round: "'The only redeeming point in the matter is, that the Vicomte de Tulle in no way troubled or molested you, and that you only saw him, for a few minutes, on the first day of your confinement.' "I need not say that this royal utterance was most valuable to my daughter, and that it at once silenced any malicious scandal that might otherwise have got about. "The king stopped to speak to me, immediately afterwards, and I said: "'I trust that you will pardon the words I spoke this morning. Your Majesty has rendered me and my daughter an inestimable service, by the speech that you have just made.' "Thus, although dissatisfied with the punishment inflicted on the Vicomte de Tulle, and believing that the king had a shrewd idea who her abductor was, I am grateful to him for shielding my daughter from ill tongues, by his marked kindness to her, and by declaring openly that de Tulle had not seen her, since the day of her abduction. I intended to return home tomorrow, but the king himself, when I went this morning to pay my respects, and state my intention of taking Anne home, bade those standing round to fall back, and was good enough to say in a low voice to me: "'I think, Baron, that you would do well to reconsider your decision to leave tomorrow. Your sudden departure would give rise to ill-natured talk. It would be wiser to stay here, for a short time, till the gossip and wonder have passed away.' "I saw that His Majesty was right, and shall stay here for a short time longer. It would certainly have a bad effect, were we to seem to run away and hide ourselves in the provinces." Mademoiselle de Pointdexter had retired when her father began to relate to Desmond what had happened. "I know little of life in Paris, Monsieur le Baron," Desmond said, "but it certainly seems to me monstrous, that the man who committed this foul outrage should escape with what is, doubtless, but a short banishment from court." "I do not know that the matter is ended yet, Monsieur Kennedy. In spite of the edicts against duelling, I myself should have demanded satisfaction from him, for this attack upon the honour of my family, but I am at present Anne's only protector. It is many years since I have drawn a sword, while de Tulle is noted as a fencer, and has had many affairs, of which he has escaped the consequences owing to royal favour. Therefore, were I to challenge him, the chances are that I should be killed, in which case my daughter would become a ward of the crown, and her hand and estate be bestowed on one of the king's creatures. But, as I said, the matter is not likely to rest as it is. "Anne has, with my full consent and approval, given her love to a young gentleman of our province. He is a large-landed proprietor, and a connection of our family. They are not, as yet, formally betrothed, for I have no wish to lose her so soon; and, in spite of the present fashion of early marriages, I by no means approve of them, and told Monsieur de la Vallee that they must wait for another couple of years. "I need scarcely say that, after what has happened, I shall reconsider my decision; for the sooner she is married, and beyond the reach of a repetition of this outrage, the better. I imagine, however, that the young gentleman will be no better satisfied than I am, that the matter should have been passed over so lightly; and will take it into his own hands, and send a challenge immediately to the vicomte. He is high spirited, and has the reputation among us of being a good fencer, but I doubt whether he can possess such skill as that which de Tulle has acquired. It is not always the injured person that comes off victorious in a duel; and, should fortune go against Monsieur de la Vallee, it would be a terrible blow to my daughter, and indeed to myself, for I am much attached to him. She is worrying about it, already. "Of course, it is impossible that the affair can be hidden from him. It is public property now; and therefore, I sent off one of my grooms, an hour since, with a letter to him. "Hitherto, I had not written to him about my daughter's disappearance. Knowing he would, on hearing of it, at once hasten here, where he could do no good and would only add to my trouble, I thought it best to let matters go on as they were. I had been doing everything that was possible, and to have his troubles as well as my own on my hands would have driven me to distraction. "The groom is to change horses at every post house, and to use the greatest possible speed. You may be sure that Monsieur de la Vallee will do the same, and that in six days he will be here. I have given him the merest outline of the affair, and have not mentioned the name of Anne's abductor. Had I done so, it is probable that Philip would have gone straight to de Tulle, and forced on an encounter at once. As it is, I trust that Anne and I, between us, may persuade him to take no step in the matter. It is the honour of my family, not of his, that has been attacked. Had he been betrothed to my daughter, he would have been in a position to take up her quarrel. As it is, he has no status, except distant relationship. "And now, Monsieur Kennedy, I have the king's order to take you to the palace. He asked me several questions about you this morning. I said that I had not yet seen you, but that you were riding over here today, and he said: "'Bring him to me when he comes, Baron. I should like to see this young fire eater, who thrust himself so boldly into a matter in which he had no concern, solely because he heard a woman's voice calling for help.'" "I am sorry to hear it," Desmond said, bluntly. "From what you say I imagine that, in spite of what he has done, the king is far from gratified at the failure of his favourite's plan. However, I cannot disobey his commands in the matter."	{ "id": "18349" }
5	: A New Friend.	The baron sent a servant to request his daughter to come down. "I am going now, with Monsieur Kennedy, to the palace, Anne," he said, as she entered. "I do not suppose that we shall be absent very long. I have been talking matters over with him, and I think that he agrees with my view of them." "But I have hardly spoken to him, yet, father!" "You will have an opportunity of doing so, when we return. Monsieur Kennedy will, of course, dine with us. After the service that he has rendered to us, we have a right to consider him as belonging to us." "Had I had an idea of this," Desmond said, as they walked up the hill towards the palace gate, "I should have put on my full uniform. This undress is scarcely the attire in which one would appear before the King of France, who is, as I have heard, most particular in matters of etiquette." "He is so," the baron said. "He will know that you could not be prepared for an audience, and doubtless he will receive you in his private closet." On ascending the grand staircase, the baron gave his name to one of the court chamberlains. "I have orders," the latter said, "to take you at once, on your presenting yourself, to His Majesty's closet, instead of entering the audience chamber." They were conducted along a private passage, of considerable length. On arriving at a door, the chamberlain asked them to wait, while he went inside to ascertain whether His Majesty was disengaged. "His Majesty will see you in a few minutes, Baron," he said, when he came out. "The Duc d'Orleans is with him, but, hearing your name announced for a private audience, he is taking his leave." In two or three minutes a handbell sounded in the room, and the chamberlain, who at once entered, returned in a moment, and conducted the baron and Desmond into the king's private apartment. "Allow me to present, to Your Majesty," the former said, "Monsieur Desmond Kennedy, an officer in O'Brien's regiment, and an Irish gentleman of good family." The king, who was now far advanced in life, looked at the young man with some surprise. "I had expected to see an older man," he said. "Though you told me, Baron, he was but an ensign, I looked to see a man of the same type as so many of my gallant Irish officers, ready for any desperate service. "So, young sir, you have begun early, indeed, to play havoc among my liege subjects, for I hear that you, and a soldier with you, slew four of them." "Hardly your liege subjects, Your Majesty, if I may venture to say so; for, assuredly, they were not engaged in lawful proceedings, when I came upon them." A slight smile crossed the king's face. He was accustomed to adulation, and the simple frankness with which this young soldier ventured to discuss the propriety of the word he used surprised and amused him. "You are right, sir. These fellows, who are ready to undertake any service, however criminal, for which they are paid, certainly do not deserve to be called liege subjects. Now, I would hear from, your own lips, how it was that you thrust yourself into a matter with which you had no concern; being wholly ignorant, I understand, that the lady whose voice you heard was Mademoiselle Pointdexter." "The matter was very simple, Sire. Having joined the regiment but a few months, and being naturally anxious to perfect myself in exercises in arms, I have but little time to stir out, during the day, and of an evening I frequently go for long rambles, taking with me my soldier servant. I had, that evening, gone farther than usual, the night being fair and the weather balmy, and naturally, when I heard the cry of a woman in distress, I determined to see what had happened, as it might well be that murder was being done." He then related all the circumstances of his obtaining an entrance into the gardens, of the attack upon him by the guard, and how he finally brought Mademoiselle Pointdexter to Versailles. The king listened attentively. "It was an exploit I should have loved to perform, when I was your age, Monsieur Kennedy. You behaved in the matter with singular discretion and gallantry; but, if you intend always to interfere, when you hear a woman cry out, it is like that your time will be pretty well occupied; and that, before long, there will be a vacancy in the ranks of your regiment. Truly, Monsieur le Baron and his daughter have reason for gratitude that you happened to be passing at the time; and I, as King of France, am glad that this outrage on a lady of the court has failed. "I am, perhaps, not altogether without blame in the matter. A short time ago, the Vicomte de Tulle told me that he hoped to better his fortune by a rich marriage. He named no names, nor said aught of the measures he intended to adopt. But I said it would be well that he should do so, for rumours had reached me that his finances were in disorder. Whether he took this as a permission to use any means that he thought fit I cannot tell; and I certainly did not suspect, when I heard of the disappearance of Mademoiselle de Pointdexter, that he had any hand in it, and was shocked when the baron came here and denounced him to me. I am glad, indeed, that his enterprise was thwarted, for it was a most unworthy one. "You are too young, yet, for me to grant you military promotion, but this will be a proof of my approbation of your conduct, and that the King of France is determined to suppress all irregularities at his court." And, taking a diamond ring from his finger, he handed it to Desmond, who went on one knee to receive it. "You will please inform your colonel that, when he comes to Versailles, I request he will always bring you with him." The audience was evidently finished, and the baron and Desmond, bowing deeply, left the king's cabinet. The baron did not speak, till they left the palace. "Louis has his faults," the baron then said, "but no one could play the part of a great monarch more nobly than he does. I have no doubt, whatever, that de Tulle relied implicitly upon obtaining his forgiveness, had he succeeded in forcing Anne into marrying him; though, doubtless, he would have feigned displeasure for a time. He has extricated himself most gracefully. I can quite believe that he did not imagine his favourite intended to adopt so criminal a course, to accomplish the matter of which he spoke to him, but he could not fail to have his suspicions, when he heard of Anne's disappearance. However, we can consider the affair as happily ended, except for the matter of Monsieur de la Vallee, of whom I spoke to you. "And now, sir, that the king has expressed his gratitude to you, for saving his court from a grave scandal, how can I fitly express my own, at the inestimable service that you have rendered us?" "I should say, Baron, that it will be most welcomely expressed, if you will abstain from saying more of the matter. It is a simple one. I went to the assistance of a woman in distress; and succeeded, at the expense of this trifling wound, in accomplishing her rescue. The lady happened to be your daughter, but had she been but the daughter of some little bourgeois of Paris, carried off by a reckless noble, it would have been the same. Much more has been made of the matter than there was any occasion for. It has gained for me the approbation and thanks of the king, to say nothing of this ring, which, although I am no judge of such matters, must be a very valuable one, or he would not have worn it; and I have had the pleasure of rendering a service to you, and Mademoiselle de Pointdexter. Therefore, I feel far more than duly rewarded, for a service somewhat recklessly undertaken on the spur of the moment." "That may be very well, as far as it interests yourself, Monsieur Kennedy; but not so far as I am concerned, and I fear I shall have to remain your debtor till the end of my life. All I can say at present is that I hope that, as soon as you can obtain leave, you will come as a most honoured guest to my chateau. There you will see me under happier circumstances. The life of a country seigneur is but a poor preparation for existence in this court, where, although there is no longer the open licentiousness that prevailed in the king's younger days, there is yet, I believe, an equal amount of profligacy, though it has been sternly discountenanced since Madame Maintenon obtained an absolute, and I may say a well-used, influence over His Majesty." "I shall be happy, indeed, to pay you a visit, Baron, if my military duties will permit my absenting myself, for a time, from Paris. All I know of France is its capital, and nothing would give me greater pleasure than to have the opportunity of seeing its country life, in so pleasant a manner." "Our pleasure would be no less than your own, Monsieur Kennedy. "There is one thing I must warn you about, and that is, you must be careful for a time not to go out after dark. De Tulle has an evil reputation, and is vindictive as well as unscrupulous. Doubtless, he has agents here who will, by this time, have discovered who it was that brought his daring scheme to naught; and it is, to my mind, more than probable that he will endeavour to be revenged." "I shall be on my guard," Desmond said quietly. "You must be careful, indeed," the baron said. "Against open violence you can well defend yourself, but against a blow from behind with a dagger, skill and courage are of little avail. When you go out after dark, I pray you let your army servant follow closely behind you, and see that his sword is loose in its scabbard." Desmond nodded. "Believe me, I will take every precaution. It is not likely that there will long be need for it, for none can doubt that military operations will soon begin on a large scale, and we are not likely, if that is the case, to be kept in garrison in Paris." When Desmond arrived that evening at the barracks, he found that the story of the rescue of Mademoiselle de Pointdexter was already known, and also that the Vicomte de Tulle had been the abductor, and had, in consequence, been banished from court. The baron had indeed related the circumstances to some of his intimate friends, but the story had varied greatly as it spread, and it had come to be reported that an officer had brought a strong body of soldiers, who had assaulted the house where she was confined, and, after a desperate conflict, had annihilated the guard that had been placed over her. Desmond laughed, as this story was told to him, when he entered the room where the officers were gathered. The narrator concluded: "As you have been to Versailles, Kennedy, doubtless you will have heard all the latest particulars. Have you learnt who was the officer, what regiment he belonged to, and how came he to have a body of soldiers with him, outside the town? For they say that the house where she was confined was a mile and a half beyond the walls." There was no longer any reason for concealment. The matter had become public. The baron would certainly mention his name, and indeed his visit to the palace, and the private audience given to him and the baron, would assuredly have been noted. "Your story is quite new to me," he said, "and is swollen, in the telling, to undue proportions. The real facts of the case are by no means so romantic. The truth of the story, by this time, is generally known, as Mademoiselle Pointdexter and her father have many friends at court. The affair happened to myself." "To you, Kennedy?" was exclaimed, in astonishment, by all those present. "Exactly so," he said. "Nothing could have been more simple. The evening before last I was, as usual, taking a walk and, the night being fine, I passed beyond the gate. Presently, I heard a scream and a woman's cry for help. None of you, gentlemen, could have been insensible to such an appeal. Callaghan and I climbed over a pretty high gate. Not knowing what force there might be in the place, we occupied ourselves, at first, by unbarring and shooting the lock of the gate. The bolts were stiff, and we made some noise over it, which brought out five men. These we disposed of, after a short fight, in which I got this graze on the cheek, and Callaghan his sword wound in the shoulder." "How did you dispose of them, Kennedy?" the colonel asked. "I ran two of them through. Callaghan cut down one, and shot another. The fifth man cried for mercy, and we simply tied him up. "We then found Mademoiselle Pointdexter, and, learning from her that the carriage in which she had been brought there was, with its horses, still in the stable, we got it out, harnessed the horses, and put an old woman who was mademoiselle's attendant in the carriage with her. Mike took the reins, I mounted a saddle horse, and we drove her to her father's house at Versailles, saw her fairly inside, and then, as you know, got back here just as the regiment was forming up on parade." "A very pretty adventure, indeed," the colonel said warmly, and loud expressions of approbation rose from the other listeners. "And why did you not tell us, when you came in?" the colonel went on. "I had not seen Baron Pointdexter, and did not know what course he would take--whether he would think it best to hush the matter up altogether, or to lay a complaint before the king; and, until I knew what he was going to do, it seemed to me best that I should hold my tongue, altogether. "When I went to Versailles, today, I found that he had laid his complaint before the king, and that the Vicomte de Tulle, who was the author of the outrage, had been ordered to his estates. I may say that I had the honour of a private interview with His Majesty, who graciously approved of my conduct, and gave me this ring," and he held out his hand, "as a token of his approval." "Well, gentlemen, you will agree with me," the colonel said, "that our young ensign has made an admirable debut, and I am sure that we are all proud of the manner in which he has behaved; and our anticipations, that he would prove a credit to the regiment, have been verified sooner than it seemed possible." "They have, indeed, Colonel," the major said. "It was, in every way, a risky thing for him to have attempted. I do not mean because of the odds that he might have to face, but because of the trouble that he might have got into, by forcing his way into a private house. The scream might have come from a mad woman, or from a serving wench receiving a whipping for misconduct." "I never thought anything about it, Major. A woman screamed for help, and it seemed to me that help should be given. I did not think of the risk, either from armed men inside--for I had no reason to believe that there were such--or of civil indictment for breaking in. We heard the cry, made straight for the house, and, as it turned out, all went well." "Well, indeed," the colonel said. "You have rescued a wealthy heiress from a pitiable fate. You have fleshed your maiden sword in the bodies of two villains. You have earned the gratitude of the young lady and her father, and have received the approval of His Majesty--a very good night's work, altogether. Now, tell us a little more about it." Desmond was compelled to tell the story in much further detail than before. The colonel ordered in a dozen of champagne, and it was late before the party broke up. "You see, we were pretty nearly right in our guess," O'Neil said, as he and O'Sullivan walked across with Desmond to their quarters. "We said that we thought it likely she might have been carried off by one of the court gallants, who felt tolerably confident that, if successful, the king would overlook the offence. This fellow, thanks to your interference, did not succeed; and the king has let him off, lightly enough, by only banishing him from court. If it had been anyone but one of his favourites, he would, by this time, have been a tenant of the Bastille. "I do not think, myself, that his punishment was adequate; but then, I am not a courtier, and should be rather glad than not, to be sent away to any estates I might have." "But," Desmond remarked, "I suppose the punishment is a severe one to these men, accustomed to a round of pleasure and dissipation, and who consider it the highest of earthly honours to be in favour with the king. However, no one could be kinder than His Majesty has been, on the subject. At the reception last night, at which he ordered the baron and his daughter to appear, he showed her the most marked favour, and particularly put a stop to all scandals, by saying loudly that de Tulle had never seen her, after the first morning of her capture." Six days later, when Desmond was engaged in the fencing room, Callaghan came in, and told him that a gentleman was at his quarters, wishing particularly to see him. "What is his name?" "Sure, and I don't know, your honour. He did not mention it, and it was not for the likes of me to ask him." "Ridiculous, Mike! In future, when anyone comes and wishes to see me, you will say, 'What name shall I tell Mr. Kennedy?'" He put on his uniform coat reluctantly, for he was engaged in an interesting bout with a professor, who was an old friend of the maitre d'armes. As he entered his room, a young man, who had been staring out of the window, and drumming impatiently with his fingers, turned. He was a stranger to Desmond. "I am Desmond Kennedy, sir," the young officer said. "To what do I owe the honour of this visit?" The other did not reply, but stood looking at him, in so strange and earnest a way, that Desmond felt almost uneasy. "Sir," his visitor said at last, advancing to him and holding out both hands, "when I tell you that my name is Philip de la Vallee, you will understand what must strike you as my singular behaviour. I arrived last night at Versailles, and heard all that had happened. You can imagine, therefore, that my heart is almost too full for words, with gratitude and thankfulness." Desmond was moved by the emotion of his visitor, and their hands met in a hearty clasp. Monsieur de la Vallee was a young man, of four or five and twenty, well proportioned, and active and sinewy from his devotion to field sports. He was about the same height as Desmond himself, but the latter, who had not yet finished growing, was larger boned, and would broaden into a much bigger and more powerful man. "Henceforth, Monsieur Kennedy," de la Vallee went on, "I hope that we shall be as brothers, and more. Had it not been for you, my life would have been a ruined one. What agony have I been saved! It makes me mad, to think that I was idling at home, ignorant that my beloved had been carried away. I do not blame the baron for not informing me, and I acknowledge that the reasons he gave me were good ones. I could have done nothing, and should but have added to his troubles by my anxiety and anger. Still, he told me that, in another day or two, he would have felt that I ought no longer to be kept in the dark, and would have summoned me to Paris. I am thankful now that he did not do so, for I believe that my impotence to do anything would have driven me almost to distraction." "I agree with you that the baron acted wisely," Kennedy said. "Had not chance, or Providence, taken me past the house where she was imprisoned, at the very moment when Mademoiselle Pointdexter cried for help, she might, for aught I can say, have remained a captive there for months, or even years." "It was Providence, indeed, Monsieur Kennedy. Providence, not only that she should have cried at that moment, but that her cries should have reached the ears of one so ready and able to save her. And now, I pray you, call me Philip, and allow me to call you Desmond, as a pledge of our close friendship." "With pleasure," Kennedy replied; and the compact was sealed with another close grasp of the hand. "It is strange, Desmond, that while the king, who had but little interest in the matter, could present you, as I am told he did, with a diamond ring, the baron and I, who owe you so much, can do nothing to show our gratitude." Desmond smiled. "I can assure you that I need no such tokens," he said. "The thanks that I have received, from you both, are infinitely more grateful to me than any amount of rings and jewels." "And now, my friend," Philip de la Vallee went on, "my own burning desire is to go to de Tulle, as soon as I have accompanied the baron and Anne to their home; first, to publicly chastise this villain noble; and then, of course, to fight him. Naturally, I have said nothing of this to the baron, but I feel, after what has happened, that in you I shall find an adviser, and a sympathizer." "I sympathize with you, most heartily, Philip, and in your place should feel the same impulse; and yet, it would not be wise to give way to it. I say this on the ground that he is a notoriously good swordsman, and that, instead of your taking vengeance upon him, he might kill you. "I feel that that argument would not have any influence with you personally, but, taking your position with regard to Mademoiselle de Pointdexter, it should have great weight. You can judge, from what you would have felt yourself, had you been aware of her disappearance, what she would feel, did she hear of your death in this quarrel. Were you her brother, I should say that you would be right--nay, that it would be your duty to endeavour to punish the outrage against the honour of your family. Were you openly betrothed to her, you would again have the right to punish her abductor; but, not being either her brother or her betrothed, neither reason nor public opinion would justify your doing so. Moreover, did you fight with him and kill him, you would incur the gravest resentment of the king; for, in fact, you would be impugning his justice, which has considered banishment from court to be a sufficient punishment for his offence. Not only was he a favourite of the king's, but he belongs, I understand, to a powerful family; who would, you may be sure, use their influence with the king to bring about your punishment, for the breach of the decree against duelling, and you would be fortunate if you escaped a long imprisonment." The other was silent. "I feel that you are right," he said, at last, "but, indeed, it is hard that I should not be able to avenge this outrage upon the lady who is to be my wife. I may tell you that, as soon as we return home, our formal betrothal is to take place, and ere long our marriage will be celebrated; but I shall feel lowered, in my own esteem, if I sit down quietly under this injury." "I do not see that," Desmond said. "If you abstain from challenging de Tulle, it is from no fear of the consequences, but it is, as I have shown you, because, whatever the issue of the contest, it would be bad both for you and her. If you were killed, her life would be spoilt. If you killed him, you might languish for years in one of the royal prisons. The king prides himself on his justice, and, by all accounts, rightly so; and I am sure that he would feel the deepest resentment, were you or anyone to show, by your actions, that you considered he has favoured the transgressor." "You are right, Desmond; and, at any rate for the present, I will put my intention aside; but should he ever cross my path, assuredly I will have a reckoning with him. "But how is it that you, who are at least eight years younger than I am, should argue as an old counsellor rather than a young ensign?" "I suppose, in the first place, it is from my bringing up. I lived with and was educated by a good priest, one not wanting in manliness and energy, but who often deplored the system of duelling, which is as strong with us as it is here, and denounced it as a relic of barbarism, and, at any rate, never to be put in use on account of a heated quarrel over wine, but only if some deadly injury had been inflicted, and even then better left alone. Of course, as an officer in one of His Majesty's regiments, I should be obliged to conform to the general usage; for, did I decline, I should be regarded as having brought dishonour on the corps. But my case differs altogether from yours. "In the next place, knowing you were coming to Versailles, I thought over what course you would be likely to pursue, and considered it was probable you would lose no time in challenging de Tulle. I have thought the matter over, in every light, and made up my mind to endeavour to dissuade you from doing so, if the opportunity offered. "So you see," he added with a smile, "I had prepared my array of arguments against it; and I cannot but think that the opinion of one interested, but not vitally so, on a point, is rather to be taken than that of a person smarting under an injury." "And now, to turn to other matters. In three days we start for the south. The baron accompanied me here, and went to see your colonel, while I came to your quarters. His object was to ask him to grant you a month's leave of absence, with the provision, of course, that you should return at once, if the regiment was ordered on service." "It is kind, indeed, of him," Desmond said, "but I doubt whether the colonel will assent. It is not a month since I was dismissed from drill, and took my place with my company, and I doubt whether he will consider that I am sufficiently versed in my duties, or that, after being so short a time in the regiment, I have any right to leave." "What you say is right enough, under ordinary circumstances, but these are altogether extraordinary. Then, after what you have done, he will feel it but natural that we should wish to have you with us for a time. Moreover, I do not consider that our journey will be altogether unattended by danger. From what I have heard of de Tulle, he is a man who never forgives, and will pursue his object with the pertinacity of a bloodhound. He has failed in his first attempt, but there is no reason why he should not renew it, confident, perhaps, that if successful the king, though he may feel it necessary to feign much anger for a time, will finally forgive him and take him into favour again, especially as his family would bring all their influence to bear to bring this about. Doubtless, he will be kept perfectly informed of what is going on here. There are several forests to be traversed on the way, and these are, for the most part, the haunts of robber bands; and, should the carriage be found overturned, and the baron and his daughter missing, it would be put down as their work. Having the baron as well as his daughter in his power, de Tulle would find it easier than before to compel Anne to purchase her father's freedom, as well as her own, by consenting to his terms. "Therefore, you see, the aid of a sword like yours would be valuable, and no doubt your servant, who is also a sturdy fighter, will accompany us." "I can hardly think that de Tulle would venture upon so bold a stroke as that, and yet he might do so. Men of that kind are not accustomed to be thwarted, and it would be a satisfaction to his resentment at his former failure, as well as the attainment of the wide estates of which Anne is heiress." At this moment there was a knock at the door, and the baron entered. "My dear Monsieur Kennedy," he said, "I have succeeded. Colonel O'Brien has been pleased to say that you have been so assiduous, in learning your duties, that he considers you as capable of performing them as any of his subalterns; and that you have just brought so much credit on the regiment, that he is pleased to be able to grant the favour I asked. Here is your furlough, duly signed. Now it only rests with yourself, to accept or refuse my invitation." "I accept it most gladly, Baron. It will give me the greatest pleasure to accompany you, and mademoiselle, and Monsieur de la Vallee, whom I now regard as a dear friend, to your home." "That is settled, then," the baron said. "We start early on Thursday morning. It would be well, therefore, if you were to ride over on Wednesday evening, and occupy one of the many spare chambers there are in the house." "I will do so willingly; and I shall ask the colonel to allow my servant to accompany me." "That is already settled. I told Colonel O'Brien that I owed much to him also, and he at once acceded to my request, saying that, although the wound is healing, the surgeon said that it would be a fortnight, yet, before he will be fit for service; and, moreover, that it was a custom when an officer went on leave that he should, if he wished it, take his soldier servant with him." "Thank you again, Baron. Mike is a faithful fellow, and a shrewd one. I am so accustomed now to his services that I should miss them, and his talk, very much." "Have you heard, Mike," Desmond asked, when his servant came up to his room, after the baron and Philip de la Vallee had left, "that you are to go with me, to stay for a month, at Pointdexter?" "I have, your honour. Sure, I was sent for to the colonel's quarters, and there I found a tall gentleman, whom I had never seen before, as far as I knew. " 'This is Mike Callaghan, Mr. Kennedy's servant,' the colonel said, and the baron stepped forward, and shook hands with me, for all the world as if I had been a noble like himself; and he said: "'My brave fellow, I have to thank you for the aid you gave your master in rescuing my daughter, in which service you received the wound which still keeps your arm in a sling. Here is a token that we are not ungrateful for the service. If you will take my advice, you will hand it to an agent of mine here in Paris, who will keep it for you, and you may find it useful when the time comes for you to take your discharge.' "So saying, he put a heavy purse into my hand, and said: "'You will find my agent's name and address on a card inside the purse. I shall go round to him, now, and tell him that you are coming, and that he is to use the money to your advantage, and to hand it over to you whenever you choose to ask for it. Your master is coming down to stay for a month with me, and Colonel O'Brien has granted leave for you to accompany him.' "I thanked him heartily, as you may believe, sir; though, as I said, I wanted no reward for obeying your orders, and for the share I took in that little skirmish. After I came out, I looked into the purse, which was mighty heavy, expecting to find a handful of crowns; and it fairly staggered me when I found that it was full of gold pieces, and on counting them, found that there were a hundred louis. Never did I dream that I should be so rich. Why, your honour, when I lave the regiment, which will not be for many a long year, I hope, I shall be able to settle down comfortably, for the rest of my life, in a snug little shebeen, or on a bit of land with a cottage and some pigs, and maybe a cow or two; and it is all to your honour I owe it, for if you hadn't given the word, it would never have entered my head to attack a gentleman's house, merely because I heard a woman scream." "Well, I am heartily glad, Mike; and I hope that you will take it straight to the agent's, and not break in upon it, by treating half the regiment to drink." "I will, your honour. It was given me to stow away for the time when I might want it, and though I don't say that my own inclinations would not lead me to trate a few of the boys, I feel that I ought to do what the gentleman told me." "Certainly you should, Mike. If you once began to spend it in that way, it is not one louis, but five or more, that would disappear in a few hours. I am heartily glad that the baron has so handsomely rewarded you for the service, and if you like, I will go round with you this afternoon to his agent, and see the money safely deposited." "Thank you, your honour. I sha'n't feel easy, as long as I have got it in my pouch. I should suspict everyone who came near me, and should never dare take my hand off it, lest someone else might put his in." "You are a lucky fellow, Kennedy," O'Neil said, when Desmond told his two comrades of the arrangements that had been made. "And, if you go on like this, the regiment will believe that any good fortune that may fall to its lot is the result of your luck." "I really do not like having leave given to me, when I have been such a short time in the regiment. It does not seem fair upon others." "No one will grudge you that," O'Sullivan said. "It is not as if we were at home. Then, of course, everyone would like his turn. But here, although we are soldiers of France, we are as strangers in the land. Here in Paris we have many acquaintances, and a welcome at most of the receptions; but that is the end of it. It is seldom, indeed, that we are invited into the country houses of those we know. That sort of hospitality is not the fashion in France. Here, nobles may throw open their houses to all gentlemen by birth who happen to be presented to them, but at home they are rigidly exclusive; and, moreover, I am inclined to think they regard us Irishmen as detrimental and dangerous. Many Irishmen make exceedingly good matches, and we are regarded as having a way with us, with the girls, that is likely to interfere with the arrangements their parents have made for their marriages. Now, it seems to me that your baron must be a very confiding old gentleman, or he would never take you to stay in the society of the young lady who owes so much to you. Faith, it seems to me that you have the ball at your feet, and that you have only to go in and win. From what I hear, Mademoiselle Pointdexter is no older than you are yourself, and it is a glorious chance for you." Desmond broke into a laugh. "My dear O'Sullivan," he said, "it seems to me that it is the favourite dream of Irish soldiers of fortune, that they may improve their circumstances by marriage." "Well, there is no easier or more pleasant way," his friend said, stoutly. "Possibly I may come to think so, in another ten years," Desmond went on, "but, at present, I have no more thought of marrying than I have of becoming king of France. The idea is altogether absurd, and it happens to be particularly so, in the present case, since one of the objects of my going down to Pointdexter is that I may be present at the formal betrothal of this young lady, to Monsieur de la Vallee, a neighbour of theirs, whom I had the pleasure of meeting this afternoon, and to whom she is tenderly attached." "By the powers, but that is unlucky, Kennedy!" O'Neil said; "and I have been thinking that your fortune was made, and that the regiment would soon lose you, as you would, of course, settle down as a magnate in Languedoc; and now, it seems that what we thought the proper sequence of your adventure, is not to come off, after all. Well, lad, I congratulate you on putting a good face on it, and hiding your disappointment." "What nonsense you talk!" Desmond said, laughing. "It is you who have been building castles, not I, and it is your disappointment that they have fallen to pieces."	{ "id": "18349" }
6	: An Ambuscade.	On the morning arranged, the cavalcade started from Versailles. The baron had instructed the stable keeper, where the carriage and horses had been placed, to notify the Vicomte de Tulle that he held them at his disposal. The woman, who had been brought to Versailles, had been dismissed, after having made before a magistrate a deposition, stating how Mademoiselle de Pointdexter had been held a close prisoner, and that, with the exception of herself, no one whatever had entered her apartment, except that the Vicomte de Tulle had paid her a visit, of some five minutes' duration, on the morning after she was brought there. A copy of this was left in the magistrate's hands for safekeeping, while the original was kept by the baron, who regarded it as a most important document, concerning, as it did, the honour of his daughter. Anne had travelled to Paris in the family coach, and she again, with her maid, took her place in it. The baron, Monsieur de la Vallee, and Desmond rode on horseback behind it, two armed retainers rode in front, and two others, with Mike, took their places behind. The old servitor sat on the front seat, by the side of the coachman. "I do not think, Desmond," Philip de la Vallee said, as the baron fell back to talk for a while with his daughter, "that he has the slightest thought of our being attacked by any of the agents of the vicomte; but I have made a good many enquiries about the fellow, in the past few days, and from what I have heard I am still more convinced that, before long, he is likely to renew his attempt to get possession of Anne. I hear that his circumstances are well-nigh desperate. He has mortgaged the income of his estates, which, of course, he is unable to sell, as they go with the title to the heir. He is pressed by many creditors, who, now that he has lost the favour of the king, will give him no further grace. Indeed, I understand that the king, who is always liberal, and who not infrequently makes considerable gifts to the gentlemen of the court, to enable them to support the necessary expenses, has already assisted him several times, and that it was only by such aid that he has been able to hold on as long as he has done. "He is, in fact, a desperate man, and his only hope is in making a wealthy alliance. Therefore, putting aside his pique and anger at having failed, the temptation to again obtain possession of Anne is great, indeed. Once married to her he could, even if the king kept him in banishment, well maintain his position as a country magnate." "But Mademoiselle de Pointdexter cannot come into the estates until her father's death." "Not his estates, but those of her mother, who was also a wealthy heiress, and of which she will enter into possession either on coming of age or on marrying. So, you see, he can afford to disregard the enmity of her father, as well as the displeasure of the king, which probably would soon abate after the marriage took place. If I had known, when I left home, what had happened, and that if she was found we should be returning home, I would have brought with me a dozen stout fellows from my own estate. As it is, I sent off a messenger, yesterday, with an order to my majordomo to pick out that number of active fellows, from among the tenantry, and to start with the least possible delay by the route that we shall follow, of which I have given him particulars. He is to ride forward until he meets us, so that when he joins us, we shall be too strong a party for any force that the vicomte is likely to gather to intercept us." "A very wise precaution, Philip; but we shall be far upon our way, before this reinforcement can come up." "We shall be some distance, I admit. My messenger will take fully five days in going. He will take another day to gather and arm the tenants, so that they will not start until two days afterwards. Then, however, they will travel at least twice as fast as we shall, hampered as we are by the carriage. I should have suggested that Anne should ride on a pillion, behind me or her father, but I did not do so, because it would have been necessary to explain to him my reasons for suggesting the change; and, moreover, I felt sure that he would not agree to it, had I done so. Baron Pointdexter is one of the largest landowners in Languedoc, and although one of the kindest and best of men, he has his full share of family pride, and would consider that it was derogatory to his position for his daughter to be riding about on a pillion, like the wife or daughter of some small landed proprietor or tenant farmer, instead of in a carriage, as becomes her station. Therefore, I must accept the situation, carriage and all, and I can only hope that this villain will not attempt to interfere with us before my men join us. "Fortunately, even if a courier take the vicomte word that the baron and his daughter have made their adieus to His Majesty, the fellow cannot hear of it for two days, however fast the messenger may travel. Of course, Tulle is nigh a hundred miles nearer Paris than Pointdexter, which lies between Florac and Sainte Afrique, both of which towns lie within the circle of the estate. I admit that, foreseeing the baron is likely to return to his estates without delay, the vicomte may have made his preparations, and be ready to start as soon as he gets the news. Nevertheless, he will have a ride of some eighty miles to strike the road on which we shall be travelling. He may then move north, until he finds some suitable place for a surprise; but, even allowing for his exercising the greatest speed, we should be halfway from Paris before we can possibly meet him, and my men should join us by that time." "You have forgotten one contingency, which would entirely alter the state of things." "What is that?" Monsieur de la Vallee asked sharply. "We give this villain noble credit for resource and enterprise. What more likely than that he has left a couple of his retainers at Versailles, with orders that, should any messenger be sent off by a southern road from the baron, his journey is to be cut short, and any paper or letter found upon him carried with all speed to Tulle? In that case, the chances of our being met by a reinforcement are very small." "Peste! You are right, Desmond. I never gave the matter a thought. Now that you mention it, nothing is more probable. It was the servant who accompanied me whom I sent off, but, as de Tulle would have been notified of my arrival, and the man started from the baron's house, it would be deemed certain that he was either going to Pointdexter or my own estate, and that the message he carried was a somewhat urgent one. Well, all we can do is to hope that the fellow has not thought of our taking such a precaution, and that my messenger will arrive unmolested. Still, I acknowledge that the idea makes me anxious, and I fear that we shall not get through without serious trouble. There are so many disbanded soldiers, and other knaves, in the forests that de Tulle would have no difficulty in hiring any number of them, and carrying his scheme out without the assistance or knowledge of his own tenants. The heavy taxation necessary to keep up the expenses of the court has driven numbers of people to despair, and many hitherto law-abiding folk are being forced to leave their holdings, and to take to unlawful courses. "However, it is of no use our telling the baron our fears. He is obstinate, when he has once made up his mind to a thing, and nothing short of a royal command would induce him either to change his route, or to stop at one of the towns that we shall pass through, and wait until my band arrives. He would, indeed, consider his honour greatly attainted by allowing himself to make a change of plans, on the mere chance that our suspicions were justified." Six days passed without anything occurring. Impatient as Philip de la Vallee and Desmond were to get forward, they could not hurry the slow pace at which they travelled. Mademoiselle Pointdexter was now suffering from the reaction after her month of captivity and anxiety. The baron therefore travelled with provoking slowness. Obtaining, as he did, relays of horses at each post, they could without difficulty have travelled at almost double the rate at which they actually proceeded, but stoppages were made at all towns at which comfortable accommodation could be obtained. Indeed, in some places the roads were so bad that the carriage could not proceed at a pace beyond a walk, without inflicting a terrible jolting upon those within it. "There is one comfort," Philip said, when he had been bewailing the slowness of their pace, "my men should reach us at Nevers, at the latest, and you may take it as tolerably certain that any attempt to interfere with us will take place considerably south of that town. I should guess that it would be somewhere between Moulins and Thiers. If our escort does not come before we reach Moulins, I shall begin to think that your suggestion was correct, and that my messenger has indeed been intercepted and slain." Desmond could not gainsay the truth of his friend's calculation, but he said: "Possibly, Philip, instead of being attacked by the way, de Tulle's agents might rob him of his letter at one of the inns at which he put up. Did he know its contents?" "Yes. I told him that it contained an order for the majordomo to ride, with a troop of twelve men, to meet us, and that he was to give what aid he could in getting them together as quickly as possible; so that, even if robbed of the letter, he might still be able to fulfil his mission. Not, I own, that I thought of that at the time, for the idea that he might be stopped never once entered my mind." At Nevers, Desmond went round to all the inns in the town, to enquire if any body of men had put up at that place, but without success. When he related his failure to obtain any news to Philip, the latter said: "Well, we must hope that we shall meet them before we arrive at Moulins. If not, I shall no longer have any hope that my messenger got through safely, and then we shall have to consider whether it will not be necessary to inform the baron of our fears, and to get him to change his route and make a detour, cross the Loire at Bourbon, make for Maison, and then journey down on the other bank of the Saone as far as Pont Saint Esprit, and thence over the mountains to Florac." "That would certainly be the safest plan, always providing that we have not been watched ever since we left Paris. The vicomte might well take this precaution, in case we should deviate from the regular route." "Sapriste! Desmond, you are always full of evil prognostications. Still, as usual, I cannot but allow that there is reason in them." "You see, Philip, we have plenty of time, as we travel at a snail's pace, and in the evening when we stop, to think over the affair in every light. I always put myself in the position of the Vicomte de Tulle, and consider what steps I should take to ensure success in my next attempt to carry off Mademoiselle de Pointdexter." "Then I am very glad that you are not in the position of de Tulle, for, if you were, I should consider that all was lost, and that there was not a chink or crevice by which we could escape. It is monstrous that a nobleman cannot travel from Paris to his estate, without being obliged to take as many precautions as the general of an army would have to do, against the attack of an active and formidable enemy." "And will you tell the baron, Philip?" "I hardly know what to do in that respect, for after all, we have no solid foundation whatever for our uneasiness, beyond the fact that the men I sent for have not met us. All our apprehensions are due solely to the fact that this fellow is utterly unscrupulous, and that his whole future depends on his carrying out his insolent designs successfully. If we had any solid facts to work on, I would urge the baron to change his route, but I fear that he would not only scoff at our views that there may be danger, but might be angry at my taking the step of sending for a party of my retainers, without his being in any way consulted in the matter. At any rate, I feel sure that he would refuse to change his route, without some very much stronger reason than we can give him." "Then we must let matters go on as they are, Philip. It may be that really we have been alarming ourselves without sufficient cause. If the worst comes to the worst, we can make a good fight for it." "It is certainly hard on you. You have performed one brave action for us, at the risk of your life, and now you are thrust into another danger, perhaps even greater than the first, and this in a quarrel in which you have no concern whatever." Desmond laughed. "Do you not see, Philip, that the adventure is good training for a soldier, and that, if I am on duty in command of a company, I shall be all the more useful an officer for having served a sort of apprenticeship in surprises, ambuscades, and alarms. The journey has been vastly more interesting than it would have been under other circumstances. We should have found it dull, without such matter of interest as this affair has given us, and, even should nothing whatever come of it, it will have served its purpose by beguiling our journey, which, in truth, riding at so slow a pace, would otherwise scarce have been amusing." "Well, then, it seems that the only thing that we can do is to see that the servants all keep their pistols charged, and are prepared to do their duty in case of sudden attack. Of course, at present they have no idea that any special danger threatens us; but I shall tell them, before I start in the morning, that we fear the road is dangerous owing to a band of robbers reported to be in the forest, and that they must hold themselves in readiness for action, in case we fall in with any of them. Old Eustace and the coachman have both got arquebuses. I shall tell them that, should they be attacked, they are to fire at once, and then the coachman is to whip up his horses and drive at full speed, while we endeavour to keep off the assailants." "That would be of use, if the assailants should be for the most part on foot, but I think it more likely that they will be mounted, and however fast this lumbering carriage might go, they could easily keep up with it. Fight as hard as we may, the carriage must be overtaken if they are in sufficient force to overpower us. I should think that it would be well that you should warn Mademoiselle de Pointdexter that we hear the road is not very safe, and that, if there is trouble, she is on no account to attempt to leave the carriage. As long as she remains there she will run but little risk, for you may be sure that de Tulle will have issued the strictest orders that no pistol is to be fired in its direction. I have also little doubt that he has ordered the baron's life to be respected, because his death would greatly add to the anger that would be excited by the attack, and would also put a barrier between him and mademoiselle, who would naturally regard him with even more hostility than before, as the author of her father's death. Therefore, I trust that in any case his life and hers will not be endangered, however numerous our assailants might be." "Yes, I have no doubt that that is so, Desmond, though I am sure that, were I wounded and on the point of death, I would rather know that Anne had fallen by a chance shot, than that she was in the power of this villain." The next morning, they started very early for Moulins, for the journey would be a longer one than usual, and the road through the forest would probably be so rough, that the pace must necessarily be very slow. At two o'clock, the men riding ahead noticed that a tree had fallen across the road, and one of them galloped back and informed the baron of it. "That is strange," the latter said. "There have been no storms for the past two days. It must have fallen quite recently, for otherwise the news would have been taken to the nearest commune, whose duty it would be to see at once to its removal." Philip de la Vallee had, as the servant was speaking, glanced at Desmond. To both, it seemed that this obstacle could scarcely be the result of an accident. "I will see how large the tree is," the baron said. "Whatever be its size, it is hard if eight men and four horses cannot drag it off the road." So saying, he cantered forward, followed by the retainer, whose comrade also fell in as they passed him. "Look to your arquebuses," Philip said to the two men on the box, and at the same time called up Mike and the two men, from behind. "A tree has fallen across the road," he said to them, "and it is possible that this may be an ambush, and that we may be attacked, so hold yourselves in readiness, look to your pistols, and see that the priming is all right in the pans." Then they went to the door of the carriage. "It is just possible that we are going to have trouble, Anne," Philip said. "Remember what I told you last night, and on no account move from your seat, whatever may take place." As he spoke, there was a discharge of firearms in front, and at the same moment a score of horsemen broke from the trees, and rode down upon the carriage. Their leader was masked. As they came up, the coachman and Eustace discharged their arquebuses, emptying two saddles. Then, drawing their swords, both leapt to the ground. In the meantime Philip, Desmond, and the three men dashed at their assailants. Philip made for their leader, who, he doubted not, was the Vicomte de Tulle, but the latter drew a pistol and fired, when he was within a horse's length of him. The young man swayed in his saddle, and fell heavily to the ground, while a piercing cry from the carriage rose in the air. Desmond, after cutting down the first man he encountered, turned his horse and attacked the masked figure, who met him with a fury that showed he was animated by personal animosity. His skill in fencing, however, gave him but slight advantage in such an encounter, while Desmond's exercise with the sabre, in the regimental salle d'armes, was now most useful to him. Enraged at the fall of his friend, and seeing that there was but a moment to spare, for already some of the other assailants were coming to the assistance of their chief, he showered his blows with such vehemence and fury that his opponent had enough to do to guard his head, without striking a blow in return. Seeing in a moment that he would be surrounded, Desmond made a last effort. The vicomte's weapon shivered at the stroke, but it somewhat diverted the direction of the blow, and instead of striking him full on the head, the sword shore down his cheek, inflicting a ghastly wound, carrying away an ear as well as the cheek from the eye to the chin. Then, wheeling his horse, he dashed at two men who were riding at him. The attack was so sudden that one of their horses swerved, and Desmond, touching his charger's flank with a spur, rode at him and hurled horse and rider to the ground. A backhanded blow struck his other opponent full in the throat, and then he dashed into the wood, shouting to Mike to follow him. The two servitors had both fallen, and the greater part of the assailants were gathered round the carriage. Mike was engaged in a single combat with one of the horsemen, and had just run his opponent through when Desmond shouted to him; so, turning, he galloped after his master. They were not pursued. The fall of their leader had, for the moment, paralysed the band, and while three or four of them remained by the carriage--whose last defender had fallen--the others, dismounting, ran to where the vicomte was lying. "That has been a tough business, your honour," Mike said, as he joined his master. "It is right you were, sir, when you told me that you were afraid that rascal would try and hinder us on our way. Sure it has been a bad business, altogether. Monsieur Philip is killed, and the baron, too, I suppose, and all the others, and Miss Anne has fallen into the hands of that villain again." "I do not think that the baron has been hurt, Mike. I expect the orders were only to take him prisoner." "Where are we going, your honour?" Mike asked, for they were still galloping at full speed. "I am going to get into the road again, and try to find help, at Moulins, to recover the young lady. There is one thing, she is not likely to be molested by that fellow for some little time." "Then you did not kill him, your honour?" "No. I cut through his guard, but it turned my sword. But I laid his face open, and it will be some time before he will be fit to show himself to a lady. If, as I expect, I can get no help at Moulins, I shall ride on to Monsieur de la Vallee's place, gather some men there, and try to cut the party off before they get to Tulle. If I am too late, I shall see what I can do to rescue them. From la Vallee I shall go to Pointdexter. I have no doubt that we can get together a force, there, large enough to besiege de Tulle's castle." After an hour's ride, they arrived at Moulins, and Desmond rode at once to the mairie. Being in uniform, he was received with every respect by the mayor, who, however, on hearing his story, said that he did not see how he could interfere in the matter. It seemed to be a private quarrel between two nobles, and, even if he were ready to interpose, he had no force available; "but at the same time, he would send out four men, with a cart, to bring in any they might find with life in them." "Very well, sir," Desmond said, indignantly. "You know your duty, I suppose, and I know mine, and I shall certainly report to the king your refusal to give any assistance to punish these ill doers." So saying, he left the room, and at once rode to some stables. Leaving his horse and Mike's there, he hired others, and then continued his journey south at full speed, and before evening rode into Roanne. He knew that it was useless, endeavouring to stir up the authorities here, as they would naturally say that it was the business of the mayors at Nevers and Moulins, since the attack had taken place between those towns. Ordering fresh horses to be got ready, he said to Mike: "Do you go to all the inns on the left of the main street--I will go to all those on the right--and enquire if a troop of mounted men have come in. I am afraid there is no chance of it, but it is at least worth the trial." At the first four or five places he visited, the answer was that no such party had arrived; then, seeing one of the civic guards, he asked him if he had seen or heard of a troop of men passing through the town. "Such a troop arrived an hour ago, Monsieur l'officier. They stopped, as they passed me, and asked if Monsieur le Baron Pointdexter, accompanied by a carriage and some servants, had passed through the town. They put up at the Soleil, and I should think that they are there now, for they had evidently made a long journey, and their horses were too worn out to go farther." Delighted at the unexpected news, Desmond hurried to the inn. It was a second-class establishment, and evidently frequented by market people, as there were large stables attached to it. The landlord was standing at the door. He bowed profoundly, for it was seldom that guests of quality visited the inn. "What can I do for monsieur?" he enquired. "You have a party of travellers, who arrived an hour ago. I have business with them." "You will find them in this room, monsieur," the landlord said, opening a door. There were some twelve men inside. The remains of a repast were on the table. Some of the men were still sitting there, others were already asleep on benches. One, who was evidently their leader, was walking up and down the room impatiently. He looked up in surprise when Desmond entered. "You are the intendant of Monsieur de la Vallee, are you not?" "I am, sir," the man said, still more surprised. "I am a friend of your master. We have been expecting to meet you, for the past four or five days. He was travelling south with the Baron de Pointdexter and his daughter. We were attacked, this afternoon, on the other side of Moulins. The baron and his daughter were, I believe, carried off; the servants all killed. I saw your master fall, but whether mortally wounded or not I cannot say. "I and my servant cut our way through the assailants, who were led by the Vicomte de Tulle, who had before carried off Mademoiselle de Pointdexter. I was on my way south to la Vallee, with but faint hope of meeting you on the road." "This is bad news indeed, sir," the intendant said. "I trust that my master is not killed, for we all loved him. As to Mademoiselle Pointdexter, it was an understood thing that she, one day, would be our mistress. "It is not our fault that we are so late. Our master's messenger was attacked, near Nevers, and was left for dead on the road. The letter he bore, and his purse, were taken from him. The night air caused his wounds to stop bleeding, and he managed to crawl to Moulins. Having no money, he was unable to hire a horse, and indeed could not have sat one. He went to an inn frequented by market people, and there succeeded in convincing an honest peasant, who had come in with a cart of faggots, that his story was a true one, and promised him large pay on his arrival at la Vallee. "The pace was, as you may imagine, a slow one, but two days ago he arrived home, and told me the story. I had the alarm bell at the castle rung at once, and in half an hour the tenants came in, and I chose these twelve, and started an hour later. Fortunately, the master had told the messenger what was the purport of his letter, and we have ridden night and day since. I am at your service, monsieur." "In the first place, let your men have a sleep. It is eight o'clock now. I will give them seven hours. At three in the morning, we will mount. There are not beds enough here, but if you get some clean straw scattered down in one of the sheds, the men can lie there. In the meantime, I will go round and hire fresh horses, leaving your own in pledge for their safe return. "You had better pick out two of your men to ride on to Moulins. The mayor there promised to send out a cart, to fetch in any wounded who might be found at the scene of the conflict. If, on their arrival, they find that Monsieur de la Vallee is not among these, they must ride on till they get there--it is some three leagues from the town--and bring in his body, together with those of his servants. They must arrange to give them Christian burial there, but your master's body they will, of course, take on to la Vallee. "His last wish, of course, would be that Mademoiselle de Pointdexter should be rescued from the power of the villain noble who has carried her off. Starting in the morning so early, we shall have no difficulty in cutting him off long before he arrives at Tulle. He will probably cross the Alier at the ferry at Saint Pierre le Moutier. I must look at a map, and see the road that he is likely to follow, but it is probable that he will make by country tracks till he strikes the main road from Moulins." "Well, I should think, sir, that he would cross it near Aubusson, and then pass over the mountains by the road through Felletin, and come down upon Meimac, when he will be only two leagues from his castle near Correze. There is a good road from here to Aubusson, and we might take post on the road between that town and Felletin. At least, sir, we can avenge the murder of our dear master, though we have arrived too late to save him; and can rescue Mademoiselle de Pointdexter and her father." The men, who had roused themselves and listened to the conversation with many ejaculations of fury and regret, now exclaimed that they were ready to ride on at once. "There is no occasion for that, my friends," Desmond said. "The coach with mademoiselle can travel but slowly, especially along country roads." "Perhaps the vicomte may take her on the saddle behind him," the intendant suggested. "That he will not do," Desmond said. "In the fight I wounded him so sorely that he will, I think, have to be carried in a litter, and he will be in no condition for fast or long travelling, so that they certainly are not, at the present time, many leagues from the spot where they attacked us, and cannot reach Aubusson until the day after tomorrow. We might cut them off before they arrive there, but we do not know what road they may follow, and might miss them; whereas, from what you say, there can be no doubt that they would pass through Felletin." "I think that he would be sure to come that way, sir, for if he followed the road on to Limoges questions might be asked. At any rate, sir, we might post a man at Aubusson, and another at Pont Gibaut, as he might make from that town to Felletin through the village of Croc. How many men has he with him?" "That I cannot tell you. Some twenty mounted men, under his own leading, attacked the carriage. Two were shot by Eustace and the coachman. I disposed of two more, and my soldier servant of another. The two mounted men and the two servants probably killed two or three more, at least, before they themselves fell, so that the vicomte would only have some twelve mounted men with him. But there was another party in ambush, and I cannot say how strong they were; but probably, altogether, there would be twenty. "There are ten of your men, after sending two off to Moulins. Now there is yourself, my servant, and I, so we shall be thirteen. With the advantage of surprise, I think that we may calculate upon an easy victory, especially as I imagine that the men employed in the affair are not de Tulle's own retainers, but some robber band that he hired for the purpose; and these, having no special interest in the matter beyond earning the pay, are not likely to make any very determined resistance." Desmond now went back to the hotel where he had put up his horse. He found Mike awaiting him there, and the latter was delighted when he heard the news of the arrival of the party from la Vallee. Desmond's purse was but lightly furnished, and as he saw that the expenses might be heavy, he went to a jeweller's. "I want to borrow fifty louis," he said, "on this ring. It is, I imagine, worth a good deal more, since it was a present to me from the king." The jeweller examined the ring carefully. "It is a valuable one, indeed, sir," he said, "and I would willingly lend you double as much upon it." "Well, we will say seventy-five, then," Desmond said. "I think that will be ample for my purpose." Having received the money, he returned to the inn, accompanied by Mike; and went round to the various stables in the town, where he hired fifteen horses. These were to be taken to the Soleil, at three in the morning, and the men who brought them were to take back the tired horses as security. At that hour, the party started, and after a ride of some thirty-five miles reached Clermont, where they stabled the horses for six hours. Late that evening they arrived at Aubusson, having accomplished a journey of some seventy miles. One of the men had been left at Pont Gibaut, with orders to take a fresh horse and ride on to Aubusson, if the party they were in search of passed through the town. At Aubusson, Desmond took a fresh horse and rode back to Pont Gibaut, enquiring at all the villages along the road whether a party of twenty men had been seen to cross the road, at any point. Then he took four hours' sleep, and at daybreak started back again, making fresh enquiries till he arrived at Aubusson. He was convinced that the band had not, at that time, crossed the road on its way south. At ten o'clock he started out with his party, followed the road by the side of the Crorrere river--here a mere streamlet--and halted in a wood about five miles from Felletin. At six o'clock in the afternoon, a horseman was seen coming along, and was recognized as the man who had been left at Pont Gibaut. Desmond went out to meet him. He reported that, at twelve o'clock, a party of horsemen had come down on to the road a mile to the west of the town. He had followed at a distance, and they had turned off by the track leading to Croc. They had with them a carriage and a horse litter, and were travelling slowly. Desmond and his men at once shifted their position, and took up a post on the track between Croc and Felletin. An hour later, the party of horsemen were seen approaching the wood in which they were hidden. Desmond drew up the men, all of whom were armed with pistols, as well as swords, in line among the trees. He waited until the carriage was abreast of them, and then gave a shout, and the men at once dashed upon the escort. Taken completely by surprise, these made but a poor fight of it. Several were shot down at once. The vicomte, whose head was enveloped in bandages, leapt into the saddle of a horse whose rider had been shot, and, drawing his sword, rode at Desmond, who was making for the door of the carriage. Expecting no such attack, he would have been taken by surprise had not Mike, who saw his danger, shouted a warning, and at the same moment discharged his pistol. The ball struck de Tulle in the forehead, and he fell back dead. His fall at once put an end to the conflict. The robbers, who had lost some eight of their number, at once turned their horses' heads and rode off at full gallop. As Desmond drew bridle by the carriage, the door opened, and the baron leapt out. "By what miracle have you effected our rescue, my dear Monsieur Kennedy?" he exclaimed. "My daughter told me that she saw you and your servant break your way through these brigands, and ride off. She has been suffering an agony of grief for Philip, whom she saw shot. Have you any news of him?" "None, sir. I, too, saw him fall, but whether he was killed, or only wounded, I am unable to say. I have sent two men to bring him into Moulins, and I trust they will find that he is only wounded." "My daughter saw you cut down that villain with a terrible blow. We have not seen him since, but we know that he was carried on a horse litter behind the carriage." "At any rate, he will trouble you no more, Baron. My man shot him through the head, just as he was riding to attack me from behind." "Thank God! We are saved from further persecutions! And now, tell me how you came to be here." "It was simple enough, Baron. I found twelve men, with Monsieur de la Vallee's intendant, at Roanne. Philip, who feared that the vicomte would endeavour to make a further effort to repair his fortune, by carrying your daughter off on the road, sent a messenger to his intendant to ride at once, with twelve men, to meet us; and, had all gone well, they would have joined us fully two days' journey north of Nevers. The messenger was attacked on the way, robbed of his letter and purse, and left for dead. He managed to crawl to Nevers, and there, being too weak and ill to sit a horse, he hired a peasant's cart and made the journey, slowly and painfully, to la Vallee. As he knew the purport of the letter, two hours after his arrival there the intendant started, and rode, without drawing bridle, to Roanne. There, by great good fortune, I found them, though men and horses were alike done up. Knowing, however, that the vicomte, in his wounded state, and embarrassed with the coach, could proceed but slowly, I let them have seven hours' sleep, and in the meantime hired fresh horses for them; and we rode that day to Aubusson, and this morning moved down to within five miles of Felletin. I left a man on the road to Pont Gibaut, and he brought us word that you had left the main road, and were travelling through Croc, so we moved at once to intercept you; and you know the rest."	{ "id": "18349" }
7	: In Paris Again.	"You have indeed done well, Monsieur Kennedy," the baron said, when Desmond finished his story. "Now, let us see to my daughter. Her maid is attending on her. She fainted when the fight began. She is not of a fainting sort, but the trials of the last few weeks, and her belief that de la Vallee was killed, have very much upset her." "No wonder," Desmond said. "It must have been terrible, indeed, to lose her lover, and to know that she was again in the power of that villain. "And you, Baron; how did you escape the fate that befell the rest of your convoy?" "We had ridden close up to the tree, when suddenly there was a discharge of firearms. The two men with me fell at once. I was unhurt, but as I turned my horse he fell dead, three bullets having pierced his chest. Before I could recover my feet, the rascals were upon me. They evidently intended to take me alive, for they were provided with ropes, and, binding my arms, hurried me back to the carriage. "By the time we got there, all was over. My faithful Eustace and the coachman lay dead by the side of the carriage. They had fought stoutly, for three of the brigands lay beside them. Six others were scattered near, and the brigands were gathered round a fallen man, who I guessed was their leader. "I found Anne in a state of the wildest grief. She told me that she had seen Philip shot by the vicomte, just as he was attacking him, and that you in turn had cut down the villain. "For half an hour, nothing was done, and then one, who was evidently in authority over the others, left the troop and came up to the carriage. " 'Monsieur le Baron,' he said, 'the orders of my chief are that you are to be placed in the carriage, with your daughter and her maid. If you will give your word of honour that you will not attempt to escape, or to give the alarm as you go along, or to address a word to anyone whom we may encounter, your arms will be freed, and you will be treated with all respect. If, on the contrary, you decline to give this promise, my instructions are that your feet as well as your hands are to be tied, and that you are to be gagged and placed in the bottom of the carriage. You are also to answer for your daughter and her maid; that they, too, neither by word nor gesture, shall attempt to attract the attention of anyone in the villages that we may pass through." "It was a hard condition, but I had no choice. The idea that I should suffer the indignity of being bound and gagged, like a common malefactor, made my blood boil. I should, in that case, no more be able to give the alarm than if I had been free; therefore I gave the promise, for at least it would be a comfort, to Anne, that I should be with her and able to talk to her. "We stopped two nights on the road, being lodged at solitary houses on the way. A guard was placed at my chamber door, and another at my window, and even had I not given my word I could not have escaped. "And now, Monsieur Kennedy, what do you propose?" "I think, sir, that it would be best that you should start at once, in the carriage, for Pointdexter. Monsieur Philip's intendant and his men will ride as your escort, but I do not think that there is the slightest probability of your being interfered with; for now that the vicomte is dead, these men--who were not, I think, his retainers, but a band of robbers whom he had hired for the occasion--will have no further motive for attacking you. "I myself shall return to Aubusson, send back the horse on which I rode there, hire another, and make straight for Moulins, where I still hope that I may find Monsieur de la Vallee alive. "Did you see the vicomte, after you were attacked?" "No. I heard one of the men tell the fellows who were guarding us that your stroke had cut off one of his ears, and laid his cheek bare from the eye to the chin. I fancy that he was too badly hurt to come to us, but in any case he would not have cared to show himself, in so terrible a plight." "We must admit that, with all his faults, he was brave," Desmond said; "for, in spite of his pain and weakness, and of the fact that his head was enveloped in bandages, he sprang from his litter, leapt into one of the saddles we had emptied, and, single handed, made for me, until my man cut his career short with a bullet. "As you go through Croc, it might be well that you should send one of the villagers off to his castle, to tell them that their master is lying dead here, when doubtless they will send out a party to fetch in his body." By this time, Mademoiselle de Pointdexter had recovered from her faint. She held out her hand to Desmond, as he stood bareheaded beside the door. "You have rescued me again, Monsieur Kennedy," she said; "for, though life seems worthless to me now, you have saved me from far worse than death. That you have so saved me, for my father's sake as well as my own, I thank you with all my heart." "I would have you still hope, mademoiselle. We know that Monsieur de la Vallee fell, but many men fall from their horses when wounded, even when the wound is not vital. I am riding at once to Moulins, and trust to find him still alive. Therefore, I pray you do not give up all hope." "I dare not let myself hope," she said. "It would be but to suffer another blow. Still, I feel that I have so much to be thankful for that, grievous as my sorrow is, I shall try to bear it, with the help of the Holy Virgin." The party now separated. The baron mounted one of the horses left behind by the brigands, and with the men from la Vallee started for Pointdexter; while Desmond, with Mike Callaghan, rode back to Aubusson. There they slept for a few hours, and then obtained fresh horses and started for Moulins, where they arrived late in the evening. They alighted at the Soleil, where Desmond had ordered the two men, who had gone on from Roanne, to bring the body of Monsieur de la Vallee. "The gentleman is not here, sir," the landlord said, as he came to the door. "He was brought into the town by the men sent out by the mayor. As, by his dress, he was evidently a gentleman of quality, they took him straight to the Couronne." "Was he alive?" "Yes, sir; but, as I hear, the surgeons are unable to decide yet whether he will live. The men you sent here arrived the day after he was brought in. They told me that you would return, and put their horses here, but they are now in attendance on the wounded gentleman, who, it seems, is their lord." "Thank God, he is alive!" Desmond exclaimed. "I have news for him that will do more than the surgeons can to restore him to himself." Leaving Mike to see the horses stabled, he hurried away to the other hotel. He sent up his name, and one of the surgeons came down. "Monsieur de la Vallee is very ill," he said, "although his wound is not necessarily mortal. This morning we succeeded in extracting the ball, but he is in a terribly weak state. He is unable to speak above a whisper, and does not seem to care to make any effort. It would appear that he even does not wish to live." "I have news that will put fresh life into him." "Then by all means go in and see him, sir. We have thought that he is fast sinking; but if the news you bring can rouse him into making an effort to live, he may yet recover. I will go in and give him a strong restorative, and tell him that you are here." In three or four minutes, he came to the door of the chamber, and beckoned to Desmond to enter. "The sound of your name has roused him from the lethargy, into which he seemed sinking," he whispered. "When I told him that I could not allow you to enter, until he had taken the draught that I gave him, he swallowed it eagerly." Desmond went up to the bedside, and took the hand which lay on the coverlet. The pressure was slightly returned, and Philip's lips moved, but he spoke so faintly that Desmond had to lean over him, to hear the words. "I am glad, indeed, that you are safe and sound. I have been reproaching myself, bitterly, that I should have brought you into this fatal business. As to the rest of it, I dare not even think of it; but I shall die all the easier for knowing that you have escaped." "I escaped for a good purpose, Philip. I have good news for you. Monsieur le Baron and mademoiselle are on their way to Pointdexter, under the guard of your men." "Is it possible, Desmond, or are you only saying it to rouse me?" "Not at all, Philip. You do not suppose that, even for that purpose, I would hold out false hopes to you; or tell an untruth on a matter so vital to your happiness." Philip's eyes closed, but his lips moved, and Desmond knew that he was returning thanks to God for this unlooked-for news. "How did it happen?" Philip said, after a silence of some minutes. His voice was much stronger than before, and there was a faint touch of colour in his cheeks. The surgeon nodded approvingly to Desmond, and murmured, "I think that he will live." "It is too long a story to tell you in full, now," Desmond said. "Seeing that all was lost, that you were down, and that further resistance was absolutely fruitless, Mike and I cut our way out; the more easily since I had struck down their leader, de Tulle, and most of his band had crowded round him. At Roanne I found your men, who had just arrived there. It matters not now why they had been detained. I got fresh horses for them and rode for Correze, placed an ambush, and turned the tables upon them. Mike shot the vicomte, and we easily defeated his followers, and rescued the baron and his daughter. I sent them to Pointdexter under charge of your intendant and followers, and rode hither, hoping against hope that I might find you still alive. Your two men, who came on here, could have told you that I had escaped." "I did not allow them to speak to monsieur," the surgeon said, "or even to see him. They are below, greatly grieved at being refused entry; but I told them that any agitation might be fatal to their master, and that they could do nothing for him if they came up; for indeed, up to the time when we extracted the ball, he was unconscious. "And now, monsieur, I think that it were best you should retire. I shall give Monsieur de la Vallee a soothing draught. A night's rest will be of vital importance to him. And now that you have relieved his mind of the load that has evidently weighed upon him, I think there is little doubt that he will soon fall asleep." "I will go and have supper," Desmond said, "for I have ridden fifty miles since I last ate, and then it was but a piece of bread with a draught of wine. After that I will, with your permission, return here, and if you tell me that he sleeps, will take my place by his bedside till morning." "To that I have no objection," the surgeon said. "I and a colleague have, one or other, been with him since he was brought in; and I shall be glad of a rest, myself." Desmond returned to the Soleil, where he had left Mike. The latter, who had just finished his supper, was delighted to hear that de la Vallee was likely to recover. After satisfying his own hunger, Desmond returned to the Couronne. He went upstairs, and, taking off his riding boots, stole to the door of his friend's chamber. It stood a little ajar, and, pushing it open noiselessly, he entered. The surgeon, who was sitting at the bedside, rose at once. "He is asleep already," he whispered, "and is breathing quietly. I think it likely that he will not stir until tomorrow morning. I shall be here at six. If he wakes, and there is any change, send for me at once." After he had left the room, Desmond took his place on the fauteuil by the bedside. For a time, he thought over the singular chain of adventures that he had gone through. Gradually, in spite of his efforts, his eyelids drooped. De la Vallee had not moved, and, being dead tired by the exertions of the past four days, he fell into a deep sleep, from which he did not awake until daylight streamed into the room. Shocked at having thus given way, he looked anxiously at de la Vallee, and was relieved to find that he was lying exactly in the same position, and had evidently slept without once waking. Half an hour later, Philip opened his eyes, looked wonderingly at him, and then said: "So, it was not all a good dream, Desmond! You are really here, and your news is true?" "Certainly, it is true, Philip. By this time Mademoiselle de Pointdexter and her father are far on the way home. They were to have travelled on to Argentan, and then through Aurillac, striking the Lozere at Entraigues and proceeding along its banks to Mende, and thence by a road over the hills to Villefort, where they would be twenty miles from Pointdexter. The carriage was to be left behind at their first halting place. Mademoiselle was then to ride, and her maid to be carried behind one of your men, by which means they would travel more than twice as fast as they would do, if encumbered by the carriage. The baron said that he would spare no pains to get home as quickly as possible, and would send a man on, some hours ahead of him, to see that fresh horses were in readiness for the whole party at each town they came to." "Now tell me all about it, Desmond. I feel another man. Your good news, and a long night's sleep, have done wonders for me. Now, please tell me all about the affair." Seeing that Philip was so much stronger that he could hear, without being overexcited, the story of the rescue, Desmond related all the details to him. "You have indeed done wonders," Philip said. "You do not seem to know what fatigue is. How strange that you, whose name I had never heard until ten days back, should have rendered to Baron Pointdexter and myself two such inestimable services. "And so, after all your exertions and fatigue, you have been keeping watch at my bedside all night?" "I am ashamed to say that I have not been keeping watch, Philip," Desmond replied with a smile. "I had intended to, but you were sleeping so quietly, and everything was so still, that I went off and slept, as soundly as you have done, until within half an hour of the time when you opened your eyes; but I am sure that I should have awoke at once, had you moved." "Then I am glad that I did not move, Desmond, for you must sorely need a long sleep, after having passed three days and almost three nights in the saddle." The surgeons now arrived, and were delighted at the change that had taken place in their patient. "And when shall I be fit to travel, doctor?" "Ah, well, we will talk of that in another fortnight's time. You need absolute quiet, for were you to move, before your wound is fairly healed, inflammation might set in, and that would throw you back for a very long time. You have had a very narrow escape, and you are fortunate, indeed, to have got off with only a trifling detention." "But I might be carried in a horse litter?" "Certainly not, at present," the surgeon said decidedly. "Possibly, in ten days, you might without danger be so carried, providing they take you in short stages and with easy-paced horses; but I should say that it would be still better, were you to be carried on men's shoulders. There is never any difficulty in hiring men, and you could get relays every eight or ten miles, while it would be difficult to get horses accustomed to such work." "You don't think that I should be able to ride, doctor?" "Certainly not in less than a month, probably not in six weeks." "Then I must be carried," Philip said. "I should work myself into the fever you talk of, if I were to be kept here. "What are your plans, Desmond?" "I have not thought of them, yet. At any rate, I shall stay with you till you are well enough to start." "I could not think of that, Desmond." "You have no say in the matter, Philip. In the first place, you will get on all the faster for my being with you. In the next place, ten days of my leave are already expired, and were we to go on straight to Pointdexter, I should only have a few days there before starting back for Paris, and I must therefore postpone my visit to some future time. I can stay here ten days, accompany you some four days on your journey, and then turn back again." "A nice way of spending a month's holiday!" Philip grumbled. "It will be a holiday that I shall long look back to," Desmond said quietly, "and with pleasure. I do not say that I should not have enjoyed myself at the baron's chateau, for that I should have done; but the adventures that I have gone through will remain in my mind, all my life, as having gained the friendship of yourself, the baron, and his daughter." "Friendship seems to me too mild a word for it, Desmond. You have earned a gratitude so deep that it will be a pain to us, if we cannot show it in deeds." "And now, Philip," Desmond said, changing the subject abruptly, "I suppose that you will be, at once, sending off one of your men with the news that you are in a fair way towards recovery. Mademoiselle de Pointdexter is suffering at the thought that you were probably killed. I did my best to give her hope, but without much success. Your two retainers have been fretting greatly that they were not allowed to see you, but I think that now they can be brought up, and you can choose one of them to act as your messenger. He will, of course, ride post, and can arrive at Pointdexter very soon after the baron, if indeed he does not get there first. If he starts at once, and changes horses at each place, he may be there by tomorrow at noon, if not earlier; for it is not more, I believe, than a hundred and twenty miles to Pointdexter. If you will dictate a letter for him to take, I will write it for you." "It must be a short one," the surgeon said, "just a few words. Monsieur de la Vallee has talked more than is good for him." Half an hour later the messenger started, carrying a note with a few words from Philip to Anne, and a longer letter from Desmond to the baron. Four days later answers were received. The messenger had arrived at Pointdexter two hours before the travellers reached home, and Anne's joy at the news that, not only was Philip alive, but might in a short time be with her, was deep indeed. The baron wrote to Desmond, as well as to Philip, again expressing the deep gratitude of himself and his daughter, greatly regretting that he should not have the opportunity, at present, of thanking him personally. With the letter the messenger brought a bag of money, concerning which he wrote: "You have, I know, dear Monsieur Kennedy, expended a considerable sum of money in hiring relays of horses, for yourself and Monsieur de la Vallee's men; and this, of course, is a debt you cannot object to my repaying. Without knowing the exact sum, I have roughly calculated the probable amount, and forward it to you by the messenger who will bring you this letter." Desmond had no hesitation in accepting the money. The baron had evidently taken considerable pains to calculate the sums that he must have laid out, in order not to hurt his feelings by sending a larger sum than he had spent, for the amount contained in the bag was but a few louis over his disbursements. He at once rode over to Roanne and redeemed his ring, which had proved of more value to him than he had ever anticipated. At the end of the ten days, Philip was strong enough to walk across the room, and the surgeon gave permission for him to start, if, instead of being carried all the way, he would be taken to Lyons, which was but twenty miles distant, and there take boat down the Rhone to Viviers. Desmond went with him to Lyons, and saw him comfortably bestowed on board a craft going down the river, and there left him in charge of his own retainers. Then, accompanied by Mike, whose wound was now well healed, he rode back to Paris by comparatively easy stages, arriving there on the day before his leave was up. He reported himself to the colonel. "So you have not been to Pointdexter after all! I received a long letter a week ago from the baron, sent by special messenger, giving me a full account of your doings, which reads like a chapter of romance. He mentioned that he had also written to the king, denouncing the conduct of the Vicomte de Tulle; and stating that, in the fight between his own rescuers and the vicomte's band, the latter was killed, and doing full justice to the part you played in the affair. I had a message from His Majesty yesterday, ordering that you should, as soon as you returned, go at once to Versailles, in order that he might question you further on the affair. "I have another piece of news for you. We have received orders to march in three days' time, which is a fortunate circumstance for you, for there can be no doubt that, however gallantly and well you have behaved in this affair, and in whatever light His Majesty may view it, you have incurred the enmity of de Tulle's family and connections, and the air of Paris would not be healthy for you, for a time. I need not say that I have read the baron's letter to your comrades, and that they fully shared with me the admiration I feel at your conduct." "Had I better start at once for Versailles, sir?" "I think so. The king is not pleased at being kept waiting. He is sure to ask you when you arrived. You had better take one of my horses. I will order it to be brought round, and shall be at your quarters by the time you have put on your full uniform." The king had just returned from hunting when Desmond arrived at the palace, and gave his name to one of the ushers. Five minutes later, he was conducted to the king's dressing room. "This is a serious business, young sir, in which you have been engaged," the king said shortly to Desmond, as he entered. "I am aware of that, Sire, and yet I am well assured that every officer in Your Majesty's service would have acted as I did, under similar circumstances." "The Baron de Pointdexter has written to us fully on the matter," the king said, "but we wish to hear the account from your own lips. When did you return to Paris?" "But two hours since, Sire." "Then you have lost no time in presenting yourself here. Now, tell us the whole matter, omitting no detail." Desmond told the story fully. He was interrupted once by the king. "How was it that Monsieur de la Vallee's people were at Roanne?" Desmond then related the fears that he and Philip had entertained, lest the vicomte should make another attempt to carry off Mademoiselle Pointdexter, and how, without the baron's knowledge, Philip had sent off a messenger to his intendant for a body of his men to meet them on the way; how the messenger had been intercepted and desperately wounded, and how, in consequence, instead of their being met by the party at Nevers, or north of that town, they had only reached Roanne after the attack had been made on the travellers, near Moulins. The king asked no more questions, until Desmond finished his story. "You did well, sir," he then said; "and the conduct of the Vicomte de Tulle was outrageous, and we should have visited him with our heaviest displeasure, had he not already received his deserts. It is intolerable that a noble gentleman, with his daughter, cannot travel along the highroads of our kingdom without being thus assaulted. It was the more scandalous when the vicomte was banished from our court for a similar attempt. The fact that he had enjoyed our favour would in no degree have mitigated--indeed it would have increased--our anger at his conduct, since it would have seemed as if he had relied upon it for immunity for his action. Surely, such a belief would have been an erroneous one. The law must be observed, and the higher placed a man is, the more is he bound to set an example of obedience to it. "We thank you, sir, for having thwarted so daring and villainous a scheme. We have not yet sent an answer to the Baron de Pointdexter, because we wished your report of the matter before doing so. We shall now cause him to be informed of our indignation at the plot against his person and that of his daughter, and our satisfaction that they have escaped from it. "You have begun your career well, indeed, young sir. Your regiment is about to start for the frontier. We shall direct your colonel to report to us, from time to time, as to your conduct, and shall see that your promotion is in accordance with your actions, and shall request him to offer you any opportunity that may occur for distinguishing yourself." Desmond rode back to Paris well satisfied with the result of the interview. He had not been slow in noticing that, although the king's approval of his actions had been warmly expressed in words, there was a certain coldness in the tone in which they were spoken, which showed that, although the king's sense of justice constrained him to praise, he was at heart sore at the death of one who had been a favoured companion in his sports and amusements. On his return, he found his two friends waiting for him, at his quarters. They gave him a hearty greeting. "You are a perfect paladin, Kennedy," O'Neil said; "and, though we are all proud of you, we cannot help feeling a little envious that such adventures have all fallen to the lot of our junior ensign. It is evident that, if you were not born with a silver spoon in your mouth, fortune determined to make up in other ways, by giving you such chances as do not fall to the lot of anyone else." "Yes, I think I have every right to consider myself exceptionally fortunate." "You may have been fortunate, Kennedy," O'Sullivan remarked. "The thing is, that you took advantage of the opportunities. You threw yourself into the first adventure that came your way, rescued a lovely damsel in distress, and her gratitude and that of her father attracted the king's notice, and gained that ring on your finger. In the next place, after escaping from the ruffians who attacked the coach--principally, as it seems, by cutting down their leader, and so occupying the attention of his followers--you instantly took the resolution to attempt to rescue him and his daughter, and succeeded in doing so. Another man might have stopped at Moulins, congratulating himself that he had escaped from the trap, and lamenting that he could do nothing towards again rescuing this damsel from her abductors. Of course, it was a piece of good fortune, meeting de la Vallee's men at Roanne; but I have no doubt that, if you had not done so, you would still have got to Pointdexter, gathered a force, and intercepted the vicomte's party." "It would have been a very near thing, O'Sullivan. Changing horse at every post, I might have got to Pointdexter from Roanne in twenty-four hours; but I doubt whether, even allowing that no time was lost in getting the men together, I could have got to Tulle before them. They had but one hundred and fifty miles to travel, I should have had still farther; and, as they would have had three days' start, they should have been there before me; for I heard from the baron that, in addition to the four horses in the coach, they had four others, ridden by troopers, fastened to it where the road was bad." "What would you have done if they had got to the vicomte's chateau--it is, I believe, a strong place--before you could intercept them?" "I cannot say what I should have done. I thought the matter over and over again as we rode. It seemed absurd to think of attacking a chateau with only twelve men; and besides, it would have been a very serious business to assault a noble in his own castle. There would almost certainly be twenty or thirty men there, at the least, and the ringing of the alarm bell would have brought all his vassals within five miles round to his aid, at once. I have no doubt that I should have attempted something, but in what way I could form no idea, until I saw the place." The two young men laughed. "I believe that you would have succeeded somehow, Kennedy," O'Neil said. "After what you have done, I have an almost unlimited faith in you, and if you told me you could see no other plan than carrying off His Gracious Majesty, and taking him down to Tulle and forcing him to order this rascal vicomte to deliver up his captives, you would accomplish it." Desmond laughed. "The plan might be as good as another, though I own that it had not occurred to me; but it would certainly necessitate my having him held prisoner until I had got safely out of France, otherwise my fate would assuredly be to be broken on the wheel." "Yes; I don't think His Gracious Majesty would have forgiven such an indignity, even if put upon him for a good purpose. It is almost treason even to dream of such a thing." Desmond laughed. "It was a purely imaginary case; but you see, not having been accustomed, as you are, to a country where the king is regarded almost as a god, I am afraid I have not that awe of him that is generally entertained here. I have, naturally, a great respect for the king whom I serve, and whose pay is a matter of the greatest importance to me; but after all, although in his service, he is not my lawful king." "Then you would not even imagine such a thing as to take your lawful king, James, prisoner, however much the fate of someone in whom you were interested was concerned?" Desmond did not answer at once. "I don't know," he said at last, "what I should do, in such a case. For King James, as lawful king of my country, I have the deepest respect, and would freely venture my life in his service; but for him as a man, irrespective of his crown, I own that my admiration is not extreme, and that I should not hesitate to join in any plan for putting pressure upon him, on behalf of anyone in whom I was extremely interested, as I certainly am now in Mademoiselle de Pointdexter and Monsieur de la Vallee." "You are a curious fellow, Kennedy," O'Neil said, with a smile, "and I should be very much puzzled if I were called upon to predict what your fate is likely to be. It seems to me that you have an equal chance of becoming a French marshal, or being broken on the wheel. Here you are, not yet seventeen. You have, as I doubt not, somewhat interfered with the king's plans, and caused him the loss of one of his personal friends. You have twice rescued a noble lady from the hands of her abductors. You have brought disgrace and death upon a member of one of the most powerful families in France. You have earned the gratitude and friendship of one of the leading nobles of Southern France, that of the fiance of his daughter, and of the daughter herself. As soon as this affair spreads abroad, you will be the object of general remark and attention. You have rendered the regiment to which you belong proud of you, its junior ensign, and made Paris emphatically too hot to hold you. "If all this is done before you are seventeen, what may we expect when another ten years have passed over your head?" "You had better wait for the ten years to pass, O'Neil," Desmond laughed; "by which time, perhaps, you and O'Sullivan will both have learned wisdom, and will see that, because a man happens to have gone through a very exciting adventure without discredit, it by no means proves him to be anything in the smallest degree out of the way."	{ "id": "18349" }
8	: To Scotland.	Two days later the regiment was paraded, but no order had been received for their start, and their destination was still uncertain. The officers stood in a group, awaiting the arrival of the colonel, who entered, accompanied by Colonel Wauchop and several other Irish officers. As there had been no notice of an official inspection, there was a general feeling of surprise at the appearance of the visitors. The colonel rode up to the group of officers. "Gentlemen," he said, "I must ask you all to accompany me to the common room. I have news of importance to give you." He and those with him dismounted, and, followed by the wondering officers of the regiment, went into the large room where they gathered in the evening. "The news that I am about to give you is of an important and happy nature. His Most Gracious Majesty has decided to send an expedition to Scotland, where the whole country is ready to rise in favour of our lawful king." A cheer broke from his hearers. "Many Scottish and Irish gentlemen," the colonel went on, "have been selected to accompany it. Among them is my friend, Colonel Wauchop, and the officers with him. The expedition will consist of six thousand French troops. I regret to say that no Irish regiments will accompany it." A groan of disappointment followed this announcement. "We must hope," the colonel said, "that Irish troops are not employed, only because it is intended that another expedition will sail to Ireland, in which case we may be sure that some of us will have an opportunity of fighting, again, on our own side of the water. Moreover, between France and Scotland there has long been a close connection and friendship, and the employment of French troops would, therefore, better suit the Scots than would be the case with Irishmen. Another reason perhaps is, the King of France does not like to spare his best troops, when he has sore need of them in Flanders and Spain. "However, a number of Irish officers will accompany the expedition, for the purpose of drilling and commanding the new levies, for which work they will be far better suited, by their knowledge of English, than French officers would be. Therefore, the various Irish regiments are all to furnish a certain number of lieutenants. Generals Hamilton, Sheldon, Dorrington, and Lords Galmoy and Fitzgerald, and our friend Colonel Wauchop will be in command of the newly-raised force, having with them many Scotch officers now in the service of France. "The secret of the expedition has been well kept, but I have known it for a fortnight, and have prepared a list of the fifteen officers who are to go. I may say that, in order to avoid partiality, I have, with one exception, selected them by lot. Those who are to go will doubtless consider themselves fortunate. Those who are to stay are still more lucky, if, as I hope, the regiment will form part of a similar expedition sent to Ireland." He then read out the list of the officers chosen. O'Sullivan and O'Neil were both among them, and the name of Desmond Kennedy was the last read out. "You will, gentlemen, start in an hour's time, taking the northern road through Montvidier and Arras. In each of these towns you will be joined by officers from other regiments. Colonel Wauchop will accompany you. I do not name the port from which you are to sail, and no word must be said, by you, as to the route you are to travel; but you can no doubt judge for yourselves, by the road that you are taking, what port is your destination. The French troops will be already there, and the fleet is all in readiness. "You all have horses. You can each take your soldier servant with you, but those who do so must either hire or purchase a horse for him. All further details you will learn from Colonel Wauchop, and the paymaster will have orders to issue two months' pay to each of you, in advance. The distance will be about a hundred and fifty miles, and you will perform it in five days." Colonel Wauchop then addressed a few words to the officers, all of whom were under the rank of captain. "Gentlemen," he said, "you have an honourable task before you. For years we have been waiting for the day when our swords might aid to place our king upon the throne. At last it has come. I need not say that the struggle will be a severe one, and that your courage will be taxed to the utmost, but you have proved that in a score of desperate fights. "The task before you will need tact to no ordinary degree. The Scotch are as peppery a race as the Irish are, and it will be necessary in no way to hurt their feelings, or to excite among them the smallest degree of discontent at being drilled and led by men who are not of their own race. "And now, as we have much to do before starting, I will leave you to make your arrangements. The rendezvous for us all is in your barrack yard, and at nine o'clock we shall be here." The colonel now left the room, and the officers eagerly and excitedly talked over the startling news that they had just heard. The greater part of those who had been selected for the service were delighted to go, while the others were equally pleased, at the thought that they might shortly be fighting for King James on the soil of Ireland. "Sure, your honour, I wish it had been in the ould country instead of Scotland," Mike said, when he heard the news. "I cannot say that I agree with you, Mike. In Ireland, we should find tens of thousands of brave hearts ready to join us, but they are unarmed, undrilled, and undisciplined, and would be of comparatively slight assistance to us against the English troops. Defeat would bring down fresh persecutions, fresh confiscations, and greater misery upon the land." "Sure we would beat them, your honour." "We might, Mike; but you must remember that we failed to do so, even when the people were armed. No doubt we shall take a certain amount of muskets and ammunition with us, but the power of England is more assuredly fixed in Ireland now than it was then--the influence of the old Irish families is broken, and even if we armed all who joined us, it would be but an armed rabble and not an army. "In Scotland it is altogether different. The Scottish clans would join us under their chiefs, to whom they give absolute obedience, and they would turn out armed and ready for action. Thus, then, I think that, allowing that Ireland is as loyal as Scotland, the choice has been a wise one." "Sure, you know best, your honour; but I will warrant that as soon as Scotland rises, Ireland will be in a blaze from one end to the other." "That may well be, Mike; but there will then be a chance of success, since the English forces will be fully occupied by our descent in the north, which will threaten London, while Ireland can be left to itself until the main question is settled." "It is mighty lucky, your honour, that I should have stuck to the horse we got when we rescued Miss Pointdexter." "I am very glad, too, Mike, for otherwise I should have had to buy one, and it is likely enough that I may want all the money I have, before this campaign that we are starting upon is over." O'Neil and O'Sullivan, at this moment, burst into the room. "It is glorious that we three should all be going, Kennedy!" the latter exclaimed. "It is just your luck, for you are the only ensign named, while the regiment will be left with only four lieutenants. Of course, I should be still better pleased if we were going to Ireland. Still, for anything we know that expedition may not come off, and, so that we are fighting for the king, it's all one whether it is in Scotland or at home." Having seen that all was ready for departure, Desmond went to the colonel's quarters to say goodbye. Several of the officers who were going were already there, and the colonel motioned to him to stay until they had left. When they had done so, he said: "Perhaps you guessed, Kennedy, that you were the one exception I mentioned to the rule I adopted, of fixing by lot upon those who were to go." "No, indeed, sir," Desmond said, in surprise; "I thought it an extraordinary piece of good fortune that I should be the only ensign to go, when there were so many others all senior to me. Indeed, I thought for a moment of saying that I would resign, in favour of one who was older and more experienced than myself; but then it struck me that if I did, some of the junior lieutenants might feel themselves obliged to do the same, in favour of their seniors." "I should not, in any case, have permitted a change to be made. I had decided that, in order to avoid jealousy, chance should decide the matter. Indeed, you are the only ensign going with the expedition. I informed Colonel Wauchop and General Hamilton of the reason for which I specially included you. "So long as it was supposed that the regiment was on the point of marching to Spain, I considered that, if you took my advice and did not leave the barracks after nightfall, no harm would befall you. But the case is altered, now that it may remain here for some time, for no doubt it will take part in any expedition sent to Ireland. I have heard, within the past forty-eight hours, that the friends of de Tulle have made very strong representations to the king. They have urged that your proceedings, involving what they call the murder of their kinsman, were of the nature of civil war; and that, if his conduct had been reprehensible, it was for the Baron de Pointdexter to lay the matter before His Majesty and ask for redress. "I hear, however, the king received their remonstrances coldly, told them that de Tulle had brought his fate upon himself, that it was the duty of every gentleman to endeavour to rescue a lady, so feloniously carried off, and that he approved of the readiness and energy with which you had taken steps to do so. "On finding, then, that they have failed in their hope of having you sent to one of the royal prisons, from which you would probably never have come out alive, I have no doubt whatever that these people will endeavour to take the matter into their own hands, and that, with the means at their disposal, they will find no difficulty in procuring persons who would undertake to assassinate you. As I have said, if you had at once started for the army, we might have looked after your safety until you crossed the frontier, but here in Paris you would not be safe for an hour, and could scarce venture between the barracks and your lodging, unless under a strong guard. Under such circumstances, I consider that I was justified in placing you on the list of the officers who would accompany the expedition. "I explained to General Hamilton and Colonel Wauchop, who both happened to be with me, my reasons for wishing to include so young an officer in the ranks of those selected for the service. The officers heartily agreed with me, having, of course, heard the story, or, at any rate, the main facts of your rescues of Mademoiselle de Pointdexter." "I am indeed greatly obliged to you, Colonel. I know that it is a dangerous thing to incur the enmity of one of those powerful families, and, though I should certainly have taken every precaution in my power, I felt that I should be in constant danger until we fairly embarked upon a campaign." At nine o'clock the party started. It numbered some fifty officers, Scotch and Irish. The baggage had started half an hour before. It was to join the carts, with the baggage of the other officers, outside the northern gates; and was under an escort of dragoons, whose officer had powers given him to requisition fresh horses at each town through which he passed, and so to push on to the port with but two halts. Once off, there was no longer any necessity for keeping their destination a secret, and the officers were informed that, as they had already guessed, Dunkirk was the harbour from which they were to sail. The journey was a pleasant one. All were in the highest spirits. A short distance behind them marched a body of infantry, composed entirely of noncommissioned officers, of whom O'Brien's regiment furnished thirty. All were picked men, and, marching each day as far as the party of officers rode, arrived at Dunkirk on the fifth day after starting, and were at once embarked on the ships of war. Colonel Wauchop and the officers of O'Brien's regiment were told off to the Salisbury, which was a ship that had been taken from the English, and was now loaded with military stores, arms, and munitions for the use of those who were expected to join them on landing. After seeing that the officers were all properly accommodated, the colonel went ashore, and when he returned it was at once seen, by the expression of his face, that something was wrong. "I have very bad news," he said. "King James, who arrived here two days ago, has been taken suddenly ill, and until he is partially recovered we cannot sail, for it is absolutely necessary that he should be with us. This may mean the delay of a week or ten days, and may defeat all our arrangements. The English Government have spies here, as well as elsewhere; and their fleet has, for the last week, been hovering off the coast. They may not have known the purpose of the assembly of troops here, for this has been kept strictly secret; and few even of the French officers of the expedition knew, until they arrived here, for what reason the regiments had been ordered to Dunkirk. But the arrival of King James, of course, showed what was the intention, and, as soon as the news reaches London, you may be sure that the English fleet will be sent to intercept us." It was, indeed, ten days before James was sufficiently recovered to be embarked--a delay which probably cost him his kingdom, for there can be no doubt that, on landing, he would have been joined at once by all the great clans, and by no small proportion of the able-bodied men of the country. The consequences were so evident, to all engaged in the expedition, that despondency took the place of the enthusiasm with which they had embarked. The fact that the expedition, after being so carefully and secretly prepared, should at its outset meet with so serious a misfortune, was considered an omen of evil. At last, however, James embarked, under a salute by the guns of the ships of war; and as the sails were hoisted and the anchors weighed, the spirits of all again rose. They had sailed but a few miles when it became evident that the Salisbury was the slowest ship in the fleet, for, although she had every stitch of canvas set, she lagged behind the rest, and the other vessels were obliged to lower some of their sails, in order to allow her to keep up with them. "I begin to think, Kennedy," O'Neil said, "that the good fortune that has hitherto attended you has spent itself. O'Sullivan and I both regarded it as a good omen that you should be the one ensign selected to go with us, but this miserable delay at Dunkirk, and the fact that we are on board the slowest tub in the fleet, seems to show that Dame Fortune is no longer going to exercise herself in your favour." "It looks like it, indeed," Desmond agreed. "Still, I can't hold myself responsible for either the king's illness, or for our being allotted to this heavy-sailing craft; and, perhaps, even if fortune should not favour me any longer, she will do something for some of the others. "She has always been favourable to Colonel Wauchop. He has been through innumerable engagements. Though many times wounded, he has never been seriously so, though scores of other officers have fallen in enterprises in which he has taken part. In his case, fortune has not been fickle, and, as he is the chief officer on board, we must hope that she has not deserted him on this occasion. I think there is a certain amount of luck in the fact that we carry a large amount of guns and ammunition. If that had not been the case, it is likely that, rather than delay, the squadron would sail on at full speed, and have left us to follow as best we might." A constant watch was maintained at the masthead of the ship, but no signs were seen of the English fleet, until, on the 23rd of March, six days after sailing, they reached the mouth of the Firth of Forth, and were congratulating themselves that they had brought the voyage to a successful termination. At daybreak next morning, however, just as they were about to enter the estuary, they beheld the masts of a great fleet coming out to meet them. This was the squadron of Sir George Byng, which had for some days been on the coast, having been despatched as soon as the news reached London of the gathering of ships and troops at Dunkirk, and of the arrival of the Pretender there. The French admiral at once signalled to all the ships to put about, and he lay off until the English fleet were near enough to discern its composition, which was far superior in force to his own. Seeing the impossibility of landing the troops and stores, and the slight chances of success in giving battle, he hoisted the signal for all to make their way back to Dunkirk, keeping as much as possible together, in order to defend themselves if overtaken, or if intercepted by another hostile fleet. In vain, James begged that a few boats might be given him, with which to land with his chief followers. The French admiral replied that his instructions would not justify him in doing so, and that he had been ordered to specially protect the person of the young king, whose safety was of the highest concern to his sovereign. It was with the deepest feeling of disappointment, and depression, that the Scotch and Irish officers heard that it was determined to sail for Dunkirk again. Had the troops on board the ships been of their own nationality, they would have ordered them to disobey the admiral's commands, and to insist upon the fleet, if it succeeded in evading the pursuit of the enemy, making another effort to effect a landing. As, however, all the soldiers were French, with the exception of the two or three hundred noncommissioned Irish officers, they were powerless, and were half mad with rage and grief. "This looks bad for us," O'Sullivan said gravely to his two friends. "I think that the French ships will outsail the English, but there is little chance that this unwieldy craft will do so; in which case, my friends, it is likely that we shall all see the inside of an English prison, and that probably not a few of us will be executed. The colonel should be safe, for he came over with the Brigade after Limerick, and therefore by that treaty was allowed to enter the service of France; but it is different with the rest of us. We have all joined since those days, and are therefore not covered by the treaty, and so are liable to be tried as traitors." O'Neil shrugged his shoulders. "Well, we knew that when we joined," he said. "However, I hardly think they are likely to proceed to such an extremity. Very many of our Brigade have been taken prisoners, at Blenheim and other places, and they have always had the same treatment as other prisoners of war." "That may be," O'Sullivan replied; "but this is a different matter. It is not a question of war on foreign soil. We were going to attack the throne of Anne, to promote civil war, and to overthrow the Government. The attempt once made can be made again, and you may be sure that the news of our sailing has created a tremendous scare throughout the country. However, we are in for it, and there is no use grumbling against fate. Already, you see, the rest of the fleet are leaving us--faster, I think, than the English fleet are gaining on us--and I trust they will get safely away into Dunkirk. "The fact that we so nearly succeeded will, perhaps, act as an inducement to Louis to renew the expedition; and the loss of a colonel, fifteen lieutenants, and thirty noncommissioned officers will not seriously affect anyone except ourselves." "However," Desmond put in, "I think that, after all, things may not be as bad as you think. In the first place, our execution would have an extremely bad effect in Scotland and Ireland, and would add to the general hostility to the present Government. In the next place, Louis has many English prisoners in his hands, and might threaten reprisals. Lastly, there is always a chance of escape." "Your first two arguments are good, Kennedy," O'Neil said, "but I cannot say as much for the last. The chances of escape from an English prison must be small indeed." "Nevertheless there must always be chances," Desmond said. "If you will take my advice you will at once go below, and conceal your money." "Where are we going to conceal it?" O'Sullivan said. "You may be sure that we shall be searched." "Well, you took my advice, in changing the silver in which you were paid into gold, though you lost pretty heavily by the transaction. We did it to prevent lugging about a heavy bag of silver. Now, it has its advantages. You could not hope to conceal silver, but we may, at least, hide a few pieces of gold. Mike is a handy fellow, and I have no doubt will be able to help us. At any rate, let us go below and see what can be done." Mike was summoned to the cabin. "Now, Mike," Desmond said, "I suppose, in a campaign, a good many of you carry what money you may have about you, and I dare say some of you hide it so that, if you are taken prisoners, you may have means of adding to your prison fare." "We do, your honour; and, by the same token, I have a score of crowns in between the soles of my boots. It does not always succeed, for if your boots happen to be good, the chances are that someone takes a fancy to them. Still, on the whole, that is the best place there is, for they are sure to feel all the lining of your clothes." "Well, we want to hide some gold, Mike. In another hour we shall have the English within shot of us, and, of course, fighting is out of the question. Do you think that you will have time to hide a dozen gold pieces in each of our boots?" Mike looked doubtful. "To do the thing properly, your honour, one should take off the lower sole, take some leather out of the upper one, put some money in, and then sew it up again; but it would take more than an hour to do one pair." He thought for a moment. "The quickest way would be to get out the inside lining of the sole, then to cut out enough leather for the money to lie in, then to put in the lining again. It would not be soft walking on a twenty-mile march, but I think, if I get the lining in tight, with a few little nails to keep it from dropping out, if anyone takes the trouble to turn the boots upside down, I might manage it." "Well, let us commence at once, then, Mike. We have all got riding boots, and can put them on before we are taken prisoners. Do you take the linings out, as you say, and then we will help to cut out some of the leather of the upper sole." They were quickly at work. Mike cut out enough of the thin lining to admit of a hole being made, large enough to hold ten louis in each boot, and he and the two officers then set to work, to cut out a sufficient depth of leather for the coins to lie side by side. Half an hour sufficed for this. The coins were put in. Mike had, in the meantime, obtained a handful of pitch and melted it at the galley fire. This he ran in over the gold, and then replaced the pieces of lining with hot pitch. "There, your honours," he said, when he had finished. "I call that a neat job, and it would be hard, indeed, if the spalpeens find that there is anything amiss. And, with these heavy boots, the extra weight won't betray that there is anything hidden. "Don't put them on till the last moment. Give them time to cool, for if any of it oozes out, you will stick your stockings so tight to it that you won't get your foot out without laving them behind." Leaving their high boots in the cabin, the three young men went on deck. The leading vessel of the British fleet was not more than a mile astern, while the French fleet was three miles ahead, having gained more than a mile since the chase began. Mike had been given four louis, which he said he could hide in his mouth. Five minutes later, there was a puff of smoke from their pursuer's bow. The ball struck the water close to them. "Shall I hold on, Colonel?" the captain of the ship asked Colonel Wauchop. "There is no use in your doing so. That ship will be alongside in an hour, and it might only cause a useless loss of life were we to keep on. If she were alone I should say, let her come alongside, and with your crew and our officers and men we might, if we had luck, take her by boarding; but, with the whole fleet close behind us, it would be madness to think of such a thing, as we have but twelve guns, and those of small weight." Accordingly, the topsails were run down, and the courses brailed up, and the ship lay motionless till the English frigate came up. Signals had been exchanged between the English vessels, and as they came along six of them dropped boats, each with some twenty men in it. While these rowed towards the prize, the fleet pressed on, under all canvas, in pursuit of the French squadron. The English officer in command of the boats received the swords of the French officers, and the noncommissioned officers were all sent below into the hold. All sail was at once got on to the vessel again, and she followed in the wake of the fleet. The English lieutenant then took the names of the prisoners. "You are all Irish," he said, seriously. "I am sorry, gentlemen, that this should be so, for I fear that it will go harder with you than if you were French, when, of course, you would be merely prisoners of war." "We should be prisoners of war, now," Colonel Wauchop said. "We are in the service of the King of France, and were but obeying his orders, along with our French comrades." "I hope they may see it in that light, in London," the officer said courteously; "but I doubt whether, at the present moment, they will take a calm view of the subject. However, I hope they will do so, especially as no shot has been fired by you, and they cannot charge you with resisting capture. At any rate, gentlemen, I will do my best to make you comfortable while you are under my charge. I must ask a few of you to shift your quarters, so as to make room for me and the three officers with me; beyond that you will continue, as before, to use the ship as passengers." When darkness set in, the pursuit was discontinued. The French fleet was fully ten miles ahead, and it was evident that there was no chance, whatever, of overtaking it; while there was a risk of its doubling back during the night, and again making its way north. The greater part of the sails of the men-of-war were therefore furled, while the frigates and corvettes made off, on either hand, to establish themselves as sentries during the night, and to give warning should the French fleet be seen returning. An hour and a half after the pursuit had ceased, the Salisbury joined the fleet, and the officer in command went on board the admiral's ship, to report the number of prisoners taken and the nature of her cargo. The officers had, at his invitation, dined with him and his officers in the cabin. All political topics had been avoided, and no one who had looked in would have supposed that the majority of those present were the prisoners of the others. The Irish temperament quickly shakes off a feeling of depression, and the meal was as lively as it had been during the voyage north. The lieutenant, however, omitted no precaution. A dozen men kept guard over the prisoners below, and as many more, with loaded muskets, were always stationed on deck. The Irish officers saw that, among many of the sailors, there was a strong feeling of sympathy with them. The fleet had been largely recruited by impressment; and by the handing over, to the naval authorities, of numbers of men imprisoned for comparatively slight offences; and, as was natural, these had but small feeling of kindness towards the government who had so seized them; while many shared in the feeling of loyalty towards the house of Stuart, which was still so prevalent among the population. At daybreak, the cruisers all returned. None had seen any signs of the French squadron, and Sir George Byng, leaving the majority of the fleet to maintain watch, sailed with his prize for Harwich. Here the prisoners were handed over to the military authorities; while the admiral started for London, in a post chaise, to carry the news of the failure of the French to effect a landing, and of their return to Dunkirk,--news that was received with exuberant delight by the supporters of Government, and the commercial portion of the population, who had been threatened by ruin. The run upon the banks had been unprecedented, and although the House of Commons had relaxed the regulations of the Bank of England, the panic was so great that it could not have kept its doors open another twelve hours. The treatment of the prisoners was now very different from what it had been on board ship. Not only were they confined to prison, but, to their indignation, irons were placed on their legs, as if they had been common malefactors. The only mitigation allowed to them was that their servants were permitted to attend upon them. Their clothes had been rigorously searched, and their boots taken off, but no suspicions had been entertained that coin had been hidden in those of Desmond and his friends. Two days later an order was received from Government, and the officers were marched up to town, ironed as they were, under a strong guard, and were imprisoned at Newgate. Callaghan and the other servants remained in prison at Harwich. "Things are looking bad, Kennedy," O'Neil said dolefully, for the three officers had, at their own request, been allotted a cell together. "They don't look very bright, but we must make allowance for the awful fright that, as we hear, has been caused by the expedition. Possibly, when they have got over the shock, things may be better." "I will never forgive them for putting irons on us," O'Sullivan said passionately. "If they had shot us at once, it was, I suppose, what we had a right to expect; but to be treated like murderers, or ruffians of the worst kind, is too bad." "Well, we were rid of the irons as soon as we got here. No doubt these were only put on to prevent the possibility of any of us escaping. I am sure, by their looks, that some of our escort would willingly have aided us, only that it was impossible to do so; and, knowing how large a number of persons would sympathize with us, I cannot blame them so very much for taking steps to prevent our escape." "I never saw such a fellow as you for finding excuses for people," O'Sullivan said, almost angrily. "You look at things as calmly as if they concerned other people, and not ourselves." Kennedy smiled. "If an opinion is to be worth anything, O'Sullivan, it must be an impartial one; and it is best to look at the matter calmly, and to form our plans, whatever they may be, as if they were intended to be carried out by other people." O'Sullivan laughed. "My dear fellow, if you had not gone through those adventures, I should have said that you had mistaken your vocation, and were cut out for a philosopher rather than a soldier. However, although your luck did not suffice to save the Salisbury from capture, we must still hope that it has not altogether deserted you; and anyhow, I am convinced that, if it be possible for anyone to effect an escape from this dismal place, you are the man." Newgate, in those days, stood across the street, and constituted one of the entrances to the city. Its predecessor had been burnt, in the great fire of 1666, and the new one was at this time less than forty years old, and, though close and badly ventilated, had not yet arrived at the stage of dirt and foulness which afterwards brought about the death of numbers of prisoners confined there, and in 1750 occasioned an outbreak of jail fever, which not only swept away a large proportion of the prisoners, but infected the court of the Old Bailey close to it, causing the death of the lord mayor, several aldermen, a judge, many of the counsel and jurymen, and of the public present at the trials. The outward appearance of the building was handsome, but the cells were, for the most part, small and ill ventilated. "This place is disgraceful," O'Neil said. "There is barely room for our three pallets. The air is close and unwholesome, now, but in the heat of summer it must be awful. If their food is as vile as their lodging, the lookout is bad, indeed." "I fancy the cells in the French jails are no better," O'Sullivan said. "No doubt, in the state prisons, high-born prisoners are made fairly comfortable; but the ordinary prisoners and malefactors, I have been told, suffer horribly. Thank goodness I have never entered one; but even the barrack cells can scarcely be called inviting." "You are learning philosophy from Kennedy," O'Neil said, with a laugh. "I don't know that I shall feel philosophic, if we are served with nothing but bread and water. However, the turnkey told us that, until we have been tried and condemned, we are at liberty to get our food from outside--certainly a mockery, in most cases, considering that we all were relieved of any money found upon us, when we arrived in Harwich. It is a comfort that we are, as he said, to take our meals together, and the money we have in our boots will alleviate our lot for some time. Probably, it will last a good deal longer than we are likely to be here." When they joined their companions, in the room in which they were to dine, all were astonished at seeing an excellent dinner on the table, with eight bottles of wine. "Is this the way they treat prisoners here?" Colonel Wauchop asked one of the jailers, of whom six remained present. The man smiled. "No, indeed. It has been sent in from a tavern outside, and with a message that a like meal will be provided, as long as you are here. One of us was sent across, to enquire as to the person who had given the order. The landlord said that he was a stranger to him, but that he had paid him a fortnight in advance, and would call in and renew the order, at the end of that time." "Well, gentlemen," the colonel said, "before we begin to eat, we will drink the health of our unknown benefactor. Not only is the gift a generous and expensive one, but it cannot be without danger to the donor, for none but a strong adherent of King James would have thought of thus relieving our necessities." It was plain that the authorities suspected that some message might have been sent in to the prisoners, concealed in the viands. The bread had been cut up into small squares, the crust had been lifted from two pasties, the meat had evidently been carefully searched; and the turnkeys placed themselves round the table so that they could narrowly watch every one of the prisoners, as they ate, and notice any movement that would seem to indicate that they had come across some pellet of paper or other substance. Every day, the servants at the tavern brought in similar fare, and this continued as long as the prisoners were in the jail; and it was a matter of deep regret, to all, that they were never able to discover the name of the person to whom they were so much indebted.	{ "id": "18349" }
9	: An Escape From Newgate.	After being allowed to remain an hour at the table, the prisoners were again marched off to their cells. "I wish we had Mike with us," Desmond said, as he and his comrades discussed the possibility of escape. "He is a shrewd fellow, and would probably be allowed greater freedom in moving about the prison than we are; but I was sure that we should see no more of him after we left Harwich. "Of course, the first question is, are we to try bribery, or to work our way out of this cell?" "I think that it would be dangerous to try bribery," O'Sullivan remarked. "Our turnkey is a sour-faced rascal. I am convinced that, if we were to try to bribe him, he would denounce us at once. Not from any principle, you know, but because he would think that it would pay him better to do so, and so obtain promotion and reward, rather than to accept our money and run the risk of being detected and hanged." "I don't blame him," O'Neil said. "He is, as you say, a sour-looking rascal, but I don't think that he is a fool, and none but a fool would run that risk for the sake of the money that we could give him; for, in any case, we should have to retain a portion of our store, in order to obtain disguises and maintain ourselves till we could find means of crossing the channel." "Then let us put that idea altogether aside, O'Neil, and give our whole attention to the manner in which we are to escape." "The manner in which we are to try to make our escape!" O'Neil repeated, with a laugh. "Well, put it that way if you like. Now, in the first place, there is the window, in the second the door, and lastly the walls and floor." "The door would withstand a battering ram," O'Sullivan said. "I noticed, as I went out, that it was solid oak some four inches thick, with two bolts as well as the lock, and, moreover, if we could get through it we should be no nearer escaping than we are at present. What with the corridors and passages, and the turnkeys and the outer gate, that course seems to me impossible. "Let us come to the second point, the window." They looked up at it. The sill was fully six feet from the ground. The window was a little over a foot wide, with a heavy bar running down the centre, and cross bars. "The first point is to see where it looks out on," Desmond said. "I will stand against the wall, and as you are the lighter of the two, O'Neil, you can stand on my shoulder and have a good look out, and tell us what you see. "Give him your hand, O'Sullivan. "Put your foot on that, O'Neil, and then step on my shoulder." O'Neil was soon in his place. "You need not hold me," he said. "The wall is very thick, the bars are placed in the middle, and there is just room for me to take a seat on the edge, then I can see things at my ease." He sat looking out, for a minute or two, before he spoke. "Well, what can you see?" O'Sullivan asked, impatiently. "This room is on the outer side of the prison," he said. "I noticed, as we came in, that it was built along on both sides of the gate; and, no doubt, this side stands on the city wall." "Then what do you see?" "I see the ground, sloping steeply down to a stream that runs along the bottom of it. There are a good many small houses, scattered about on the slope and along by the stream. Over to the left, there is a stone bridge across it. Near this is a large building, that looks like another prison, and a marketplace with stalls in it. Houses stand thickly on either side of the road, and beyond the bridge the opposite side of the slope is covered with them. Among these are some large buildings. "If we were once out, there would not be much chance of our being detected, if we had something to put over our uniforms; but, of course, they would betray us to the first man we met." "Yes, of course," O'Sullivan said; "but we might possibly obtain plain clothes at one of those small houses you speak of, though that would be risky." "We might leave our coatees behind us, and go only in our shirts and breeches; and give out that we had been attacked, and robbed of our money and coats by footpads," Desmond said. "That is a good idea," O'Neil agreed. "Yes, that might do, especially as, after dark, they would not be likely to notice that our breeches were of a French cut." "But it seems to me that we are beginning at the wrong end of the business. It is of no use discussing what we are to do, when we escape, till we have settled upon the manner in which we are to get out. Let us talk over that first. "Are the bars firmly in, O'Neil?" O'Neil tried, with all his strength, to shake them. "They are as firm as the walls," he said. "There is no getting them out, unless we have tools to cut away all the stonework round them." "I suppose there is no chance of cutting through them?" O'Sullivan asked. "There is not," O'Neil said. "We have not got such a thing as a knife about us. If we had, we could never saw through these thick bars; it would take a year of Sundays." "You are rather a Job's comforter. Now, do you get down, and let Kennedy and myself have a chance of a breath of fresh air, to say nothing of the view." A few minutes satisfied O'Sullivan, but Desmond, when he took his place, sat there considerably longer; while the other two, throwing themselves on their pallets, chatted gaily about Paris and their friends there. "Well, what conclusions do you arrive at?" they asked, when he leapt down from his seat. "They are not very cheering," he replied, "and I recognize fully that we cannot possibly make our escape, without aid from without." "That is the same as to say that we cannot make our escape at all." "Not exactly. We have found one unknown friend, who supplied us with our dinners. There is no absolute reason why we should not find one who would supply us with means of escape. There must be a great number of people who sympathize with us, and whose hearts are with King James. I have seen several men come from the market, stand and look up at this prison, and then walk off, slowly, as if they were filled with pity for us. Now, I propose that one of us shall always be at the window." "Oh, that is too much!" O'Sullivan said. "That ledge is so narrow that I could hardly sit there, even holding on by the bars; and as to stopping there half an hour, I would almost as soon be on the rack." "There will be no occasion for that," Desmond said. "We can easily move one of the pallets under it, pile the other straw beds upon it, and, standing on these, we could look out comfortably, for our shoulders would be well above the ledge." "I don't see that we should be nearer to it, then, Kennedy." "We should have gained this much: that directly we saw any person looking up, with a sympathizing air, especially if of a class who could afford to do what is necessary for us, we could wave our hands and attract his attention. If disposed to help us, he might give some sign. If not, no harm would be done. We might, too, tie a handkerchief to the bars, which in itself might be taken for an indication that there are followers of the Stuarts here." "But supposing all this turned out as you suggest it might, how could even the best disposed friend do anything to help us?" "That is for after consideration. Let us first find a friend, and we shall find a way to open communication with him. We have no paper, but we could write the message on a piece of linen and drop it down. As far as we can see, from here, there is nothing to prevent anyone coming up to the foot of the wall below us." For the next four days, nothing whatever happened. They could see that the white handkerchief at the bars attracted some attention, for people stopped and looked up at it, but continued their way without making any gesture that would seem to show that they interested themselves, in any way, in the matter. On the fourth day, Desmond, who was at the window, said in a tone of excitement: "There is a man down there who, after looking fixedly in this direction, is making his way towards us. He does not come straight, but moves about among the houses; but he continues to approach. I can't make out his face yet, but there is something about him that reminds me of Mike; though how he could be here, when we left him in the prison at Harwich, is more than I can say." O'Neil and O'Sullivan in turn looked through the window. Not being so much accustomed as he was to Mike's figure and walk, they could not recognize in the man, in the dress of a country peasant, the well-set-up soldier who attended on Desmond. Both admitted, however, that in point of figure it might well be the man. "If it is," Desmond said, "all our difficulties are at an end, and I will wager that we shall be free in three or four days. Now, how are we to communicate with him?" "I have a piece of paper in my pocket. It is only an old bill, and they threw it down, contemptuously, when they searched me," O'Neil said. "I picked it up again. I hardly know why, except perhaps that the idea occurred to me that, some day, I might get a chance of paying it. But as we have no ink, nor pen, nor charcoal, I don't see how it can benefit us." He drew the bill from the pocket of his coatee. Desmond took it, and stood looking at it in silence for a minute. Then an idea occurred to him. "I have it!" he exclaimed, presently. "O'Neil, see if you can get a piece of this gold wire off my facings. I want it five or six inches long, so that when it is doubled up and twisted together, so as to be an inch long, it will be stiff enough for our purpose." Somewhat puzzled, O'Neil did as he was requested. Desmond straightened out the fine wire wrapped round the centre thread, doubled, and again doubled it, and finally twisting it together, reduced it to a length of about an inch, and the thickness of a pin. The others looked on, wondering what was his intention. He held the paper out before him, and began pricking small holes through it, close together. He continued to work for some time, and then held it up to the light. The others understood the nature of his work, and they could now read: Come ten tonight under window. Bring long thin string. Whistle. We will lower thread. Tie end of string to it. Will give further instructions. He tore off the portion of the bill on which the message was written, twisted off two of the buttons of his coatee, folded them in the paper, and took his place at the window again. The man who had been watching was standing some sixty feet from the foot of the wall. His back was towards them. Presently he turned, carelessly looked up at the window, and then, as if undecided what to do, took off his cap and scratched his head. "It is Mike, sure enough," Desmond exclaimed, and, thrusting his hand through the bars, waved it for a moment. Then, taking the little packet, he dropped it. Mike put on his hat again, turned round, then looked cautiously to see that no one was noticing him, and strolled, in an aimless and leisurely way, towards the wall. Desmond could no longer see him, but felt sure that he would find the missive. Presently he came in sight again, walking quietly away. He did not look round; but when nearly at the bottom of the hill turned, lifted one hand, and disappeared behind some houses. "He can't read," Desmond said, "but I have no doubt he will get someone to do it for him." A vigilant watch was kept up, but nothing was seen of Mike, till late in the afternoon, when he emerged into one of the open spaces. They had now taken the handkerchief down from the window, and, directly they saw him, Desmond waved it, showing that they were watching him. He threw up his arm, turned, and disappeared again. "He has made out my message," Desmond said. "We may expect him here at ten o'clock." While he had been watching, his two comrades had, under his instructions, been unravelling a portion of one of their blankets. When enough thread had been obtained, the strands were tied together and doubled, and Desmond had little doubt that it was sufficiently strong to draw up the string Mike would bring with him. He now took another portion of the bill, and pricked upon it the words: At nine tomorrow night, bring, if possible, fine steel saw, two files, and small bottle of oil. Fasten these to string we will lower with further instructions. He then opened his coatee, took out some of the white wool with which it was padded, formed this into a loose ball, in the centre of which the note was fastened, and all being in readiness, waited patiently, until, just as the city clock struck ten, they heard a low whistle. The ball had already been attached to the end of the thread, and Desmond at once lowered it down. Presently, they heard another whistle and, hauling at it again, they found that the ball had gone, and attached to the end of the thread was a very light silken cord, which they drew in. There was another low whistle, and all was silent. "So far, so good," Desmond said. "We are fairly on our way to liberty. How long do you suppose it will take us to cut through these bars?" "It would take us a long while to file through them all," O'Neil said, "but with a fine steel saw, I should think that a couple of nights' work should do it. But of course that is mere guesswork, for I have not the least idea how fast even the best saw could cut through iron." "Well, there is no particular hurry, for we know that no day has been fixed yet for our trial. So, whether it is one night or six, it does not matter much." On the following evening at nine o'clock the whistle was heard, and another ball lowered down at the end of the string. The instructions this time were: When we are ready, we will show a handkerchief at window. Bring with you, at nine that evening, rope strong enough to bear us, and have disguises for three ready for us at foot of wall. Herewith are ten louis to purchase three disguises. The cord brought up a small packet, which contained two very fine small steel saws, two files, and the oil. They did not lose a moment in setting to work, and, oiling the saws, one began to cut through the central bar, just above the point where the lowest cross bars went through it, as they determined to leave these to fasten the rope to. There was not room for two of them to work together, and they agreed to take it by turns, changing every quarter of an hour. To their great satisfaction, they found that the saw did its work much more quickly than they had expected, and by the time each had had a turn the bar was cut through; and by morning the side bars had also all been cut. They did not attempt to cut the main bar higher up, as, had they done so, it would have been difficult to keep the portion cut out in its place. When it was light, they filled up all the cuts with bread, which they had managed to secrete in the palms of their hands at dinner. This they kneaded into a sort of putty, rolled it in the dust of the floor until black, and then squeezed it into the interstices. "There is no fear of their noticing it," O'Neil said, when they had finished. "I cannot see the cuts myself from the floor, though I know where they are; and unless they were to climb up there, and examine the place very closely, they would not see anything wrong." "Shall we hang out the flag today, Kennedy?" "I think we had better wait till tomorrow. He will be hardly expecting to see it, today, and may not be ready with the rope and disguises." The next morning the signal was hung out. They saw nothing of Mike, but as he would be able to make out the handkerchief from a considerable distance, they had no doubt whatever that he had observed it, but thought it prudent not to show himself near the prison again. As soon as it was dark they recommenced work, and had cut through the main bar, and cautiously lowered the grating to the ground, before the clock struck nine. Then, on hearing Mike's signal, they lowered the cord, and soon brought up a rope which, although small, was more than strong enough to support them. "We had better tie some knots in it," Desmond said. "They will help us to avoid sliding down too rapidly. If it was a thick rope, I think we could manage without them; but, not being sailors, I do not think that we could grasp this tightly enough." "How close shall we put them, Kennedy?" "About two feet apart. Then we can come down hand over hand, helping our arms by twisting our legs round it. "Now," he went on, when they had finished the knots, "who will go down first?" "You had better do so," O'Sullivan said. "You are the lightest of us, and, I fancy, the strongest, too." "Very well. I don't think that it will make any difference, for the rope is strong enough to hold the three of us together. However, here goes. We may as well leave our coatees behind us. They might get us into difficulties, if we took them." So saying, he took off his coat, fastened the end of the rope securely to the bars that had been left for the purpose, and, holding it firmly, made his way through the opening and swung himself over. With his muscles strengthened by military exercises and sword practice, he found it easier work than he had expected. The depth was some sixty feet, and in a couple of minutes his feet touched the ground. Mike had been hanging on by the rope to steady it, and as Desmond descended, he seized him by the hand and shook it enthusiastically, murmuring brokenly, "My dear master, thank God that you are free!" "Thanks to you also, my dear fellow. Now, hold on again. My friends O'Neil and O'Sullivan shared my cell with me, and are following me." He added his weight to that of Mike, and it was not long before O'Neil came down; but not so quietly as Desmond had done, for his strength had failed him, and the rope had slipped rapidly through his fingers, and Mike and Desmond narrowly escaped being knocked down by the suddenness with which the descent was made. He stood for a minute, wringing his hand, and swearing in an undertone in English, Irish, and French. "By the powers," he said, "it has taken the skin off the inside of my hands, entirely! A red-hot poker could not have done it more nately! "Mike, you rascal, what are you laughing at? I have a mind to break your bones before thanking you." O'Sullivan succeeded better, but was completely exhausted when he joined his friends. "Now, Mike, where are the disguises?" "Here they are, your honour. They are just like my own. Loose coats, rough breeches, white stockings and buckled shoes, and soft hats with wide brims. I thought that you would pass better, like that, than in any other way; for if you were dressed up as citizens, your tongues might betray you, for somehow they don't speak English as we do; and whenever I open my mouth, they discover that I am an Irishman." Desmond laughed. "There would be no difficulty about that. Now, let us put on our disguises at once, and be off. Sometimes the turnkeys take it into their heads to look in during the night, and we had to keep one on watch while we were at work, and take to our beds when we heard a footstep approaching. "I see you have brought shoes. I forgot to mention them. Our jack boots would have attracted attention, so we have left them behind us, after getting our stores of money from their hiding places." They were soon dressed. "What are we supposed to be, Mike?" "You are sedan chair men, sir. Most of the chairs are carried by Irishmen, who seem to be stronger in the leg than these London folk. You will have to cut your hair short, and then you will pass without observation." "Where are you taking us to?" Desmond asked, as they descended the hill. "I have got a lodging in a house out in the fields. I said that I was an Irishman who had come to London in search of employment, and that I expected three friends to join me, and that we intended to hire chairs and carry the gentry about, for here they seem too lazy to walk, and everyone is carried; though it is small blame to them, for dirtier streets I never saw. They are just full of holes, where you go in up to the knee in mud and filth of all kinds. Faith, there are parts of Paris which we can't say much for, but the worst of them are better than any here, except just the street they call Cheapside, which goes on past Saint Paul's, and along the Strand to Westminster." "What have you brought these sticks for, Mike?" For he had handed, to each, a heavy bludgeon. "Sure, your honour, 'tis not safe to be in the streets after nightfall. It is like that part of Paris where no dacent man could walk, without being assaulted by thieves and cutthroats. Dressed as we are, it is not likely anyone would interfere with us in the hope of finding money on us, but they are not particular at all, at all, and a party of these rascals might try to roll us in the mire, just for fun. So it is as well to be prepared." However, they met with no interruption, passed out through Holborn Bars, and soon arrived at the house where Mike had taken a lodging. They were not sorry, however, that they were armed, for, several times, they heard outbursts of drunken shouting and the sound of frays. Mike had hired two rooms. In one of these were three straw beds, for the officers. He himself slept on a blanket on the floor of the other room, which served as kitchen and sitting room. Now, for the first time, they were able to talk freely. "Mike, we have not said much to you, yet," Desmond began, "but I and these gentlemen are fully conscious that you have saved us from death, for we hear that Government is determined to push matters to the extremity, and to have all the officers captured condemned to be hanged." "Bad cess to them!" Mike exclaimed, indignantly. "If I had two or three of them, it's mighty little they would talk of execution, after I and me stick had had a few minutes' converse with them. "As to the getting you out, I assure you, your honour, there is little I have done, except to carry out your orders. When I first saw the prison, and the little white flag flying from the window, I said to myself that, barring wings, there was no way of getting to you; and it was only when I got your first letter that I saw it might be managed. Faith, that letter bothered me, entirely. I took it to the woman downstairs, and asked her to read it for me, saying that I had picked it up in the street, and wondered what it was about. She was no great scholar, but she made out that it was writ in a foreign language, and seemed to her to be a bit of an old bill. When I took it up to my room, I looked at it every way. I knew, of course, that it was a message, somehow, but devil a bit could I see where it came in. "I fingered it for an hour, looking at it in every way, and then I saw that there were some small holes pricked. Well, I could not ask the woman what they meant, as I had told her I picked it up; so I went across to an Irishman, whose acquaintance I had made the day before, and who had recommended me, if I wanted work, to hire one of these chairs and get a comrade to help me carry it. I could see that he was a man who had seen better days. I expect he had come over in the time of the troubles, and had been forced to earn his living as he could; so I went to him. " 'I have got a message,' I said, 'pricked on a piece of paper. I picked it up, and am curious-like to know what it is about.' "So he held it up to the light, and read out your message. " 'I think,' says he, 'it is some colleen who has made an appointment with her lover. Maybe she has been shut up by her father, and thought it the best way to send him a message.' " 'That is it, no doubt,' says I; 'and it is plain that it never came to his hand.' "The next day, I went to him again with the second letter. " 'It's lying you have been to me,' he said. 'It is some plot you are concerned in.' " 'Well,' says I, 'you are not far wrong. I have some friends who have suffered for the Stuarts, and who have been laid by the leg, and it's myself who is trying to get them out of the hands of their persecutors.' " 'In that case, I am with you,' he said, 'for I have suffered for the cause myself; and if you want assistance, you can depend upon me.' " 'Thank you kindly,' says I. 'Just at present it is a one man job, but maybe, if I get them out, you will be able to give us some advice as to how we had best manage.' "So that is how it stands, your honour." "And now, tell us how you got away, Mike. You may guess how surprised we were, when we first made you out, believing that you were safe under lock and key at Harwich." "The matter was easy enough," Mike said. "It took me two or three days to get to understand the position of the place, with water all round it except on one side; and it was plain that, if I were to start running, it is little chance I should have if I did not hit upon the right road. Luckily, they were mounting some cannon the day after you were taken away. We were ordered to go out and lend a hand, so it was not long before I learnt enough to know which road I ought to take. I was always a good runner, your honour, and many a prize have I carried off, at fairs in the old country, before troubles began. So it seemed to me that, if I could have anything of a start, I ought to be able to get off. "There was nearly half a mile betwixt the town and the place where the narrow ground, at whose end it stood, widened out into the country. If I could only hold my own, as far as that, I could take to the woods and lanes and save myself. "A guard of soldiers, with muskets and bayonets, went out with us, and at the end of the second day I managed to slip off, and hide behind a pile of cannonballs. The rest assembled at a spot about fifty yards away, to be counted before they marched to prison again. As soon as the others had got there, and the guards had gathered round, I went off as hard as I could tear. And a good start I should have got, if it hadn't been that a sentry on a fort close by fired his piece at me. Still, I had a good hundred yards' start. "The guards set to, to run after me, and when they got in sight of me fired their guns; but they were flurried, and the bullets flew past without one of them touching me. Then I felt pretty safe. If they stopped to load their muskets, I should get clean away. If, as I expected, they would not stop for that, they would not have a chance with me, carrying their muskets and cartridge boxes and belts. I had taken off my coatee and boots, while I was waiting for the start, and went up the hill like a deer. "I did not look round, till I got to the top. Then I found that I had gained a hundred yards of them. I doubled down a lane, at once, and then struck through some orchards; and ran, without stopping, maybe a couple of miles. "I never heard any more of the soldiers, and knew that, for the present, I was safe, though maybe they would send some dragoons to scour the country when the news came in. I went on at a jog trot till it was quite dark; then I sat down to think what I should do next. "I had got my four louis with me, for they hadn't found them when they searched me. The first thing was to get some duds, and I walked along till I saw a light in a cottage, which I entered. There were two women there. I told them at once that I wanted clothes, and was ready to pay for them; but that, if they would not give them to me for money, I should take them without paying. Though I could see that they doubted the payment, and regarded me as a robber, they brought out the clothes, which belonged, one of the women said, to her husband. I took what I wanted. " 'Now,' I said, 'how much shall I pay you for these?' "They were still terribly frightened, and said that I was welcome. However, I put one of my louis down on the table. This was certainly more than the clothes ever cost, so I said: "'Here is a gold piece, but I want a shilling in change, to buy food with.' "At first, they evidently hardly thought that I was in earnest. Then at last, when they found that I really intended to give the money, they brightened up, and not only gave me a shilling in change, but offered me some bread and cheese, which I was glad enough to take. "Then I put the clothes on over my own, not wishing to lave anything behind that would show searchers that it was I who had been there. I told the woman that the coin was a French one, but that it was worth about the same as an English guinea. I advised them to put it away, for the present, and not to try and change it for a few weeks, as enquiries might be made as to how they had obtained it. "I had no difficulty on my way up to London. I avoided the main road till I got to Colchester, and after that walked boldly on, having money to pay for victuals. When I got to town, I changed another of my louis at a money changer's. He asked me where I had got it, and when I said that it was no business of his, but that it had been paid me by a French Huguenot gentleman, who had lately arrived, and for whom I had been doing some work; and as there are many of these Huguenots in London, he was satisfied, and changed it for me. "I then fell across the Irish porter I told you of. He told me whereabouts I could get lodgings, and advised me to apply to one of the men who let out a number of sedan chairs, to hire one out to me by the week. "Well, your honour, once I had taken the lodging, I thought no more of the chair, but went about the business for which I had come to London. I had not been an hour in the town before I made the acquaintance of half a dozen, at least, of my countrymen, and found out which was the prison in which you were kept. At first, I thought of going there and giving myself up, on condition that I might be employed as your servant. Then I thought, perhaps they would not keep their word to me, but would send me back to Harwich; and then the thought struck me that I might, some way or other, get your honours out of prison. "When I first saw the place, it seemed to me that it was impossible. The place was mighty strong, the windows all barred, and I had no means of finding out where you were lodged. I spent a whole day in prowling round and round the jail, but sorra an idea came into my thick head, though I bate it wid my fists till it was sore; for, says I to myself, there is no lock so strong but it can be picked, if you do but know the right way. It was the second day, when I espied a little bit of white stuff at one of the windows. It might be a signal, or it might not, and even if it was, there was no reason why it should be yours, except that, I said to myself: "'Mr. Kennedy is not the boy to sit quiet in prison, if he can see any possible way of slipping out of it. His head is crammed full of ideas. So I will walk near and investigate the matter.' "As I came close, I could make out that there was someone behind the bars, but I could not see who it was. Of course, I did not come straight to the spot, but went about promiscuously. "For anything I could tell, there might be someone in the towers watching me. Then I saw a hand drop a little white parcel, and I found it without much trouble and went off with it. It was as much as I could do, to keep myself from running like a madman, for I felt somehow sure that it was you who had dropped it, but of course, it was not until I got it read for me that I was certain. "After that, your honour, it was all easy enough. You told me what to do, and I did it. There was a little difficulty about the saw, but I got it through one of the chair men, who told me, when I asked him, that he had the acquaintance of some cracksmen--more shame to him--and that he could get such a thing as I wanted through them. I was not surprised, for I had already heard that many of the chair men worked in connection with the bad characters, letting them know which way they were coming with people from an entertainment, and carrying them down lanes where there was little chance of the watch interfering. "It went against the grain to have dealings with such a man, for I was born of honest people, but if the ould gentleman himself had offered me a couple of saws, and I knew that I would have to give him a thousand years extra of purgatory, I would have closed with the bargain. Those two saws cost me another louis, and cheap enough, too. "After that, it was all plain sailing, and the money you lowered to me was much more than sufficient for all the other things. And now, what is your honour going to do next?" "That is more than I can tell you, Mike. We must talk it over." This was a matter that they had already discussed, in their cell, after they had once made their preparations for flight. Closely watched as they were, when with the other officers, it would have been impossible to communicate their plans to them; but, even if they could have done so, they could see no possible way in which the others could share in their escape. Doubtless the doors of their cells were also strong and heavy, and, could all these difficulties have been overcome, there would have been passages, corridors, and staircases to traverse, with the certainty of meeting with some of the night watchmen who patrolled them, and they would finally have had to force the door into their cell. They were, therefore, reluctantly obliged to abandon the hope of liberating their friends, and decided that, once away, they must endeavour to cross to France without delay. The king would doubtless have been, before now, informed by his agents in London of the determination of the English Government to bring all the prisoners to execution, but nevertheless, it would be their duty to obtain an audience, and implore him to take steps to save them. They would therefore, on their arrival in Paris, at once see General Hamilton, and other officers of rank, and beg them to accompany them to Versailles to act as spokesmen, and to influence the king in their favour.	{ "id": "18349" }
10	: Kidnapping A Minister.	In spite of the war between the two countries, communications were frequent. Smuggling boats brought over, with their cargoes of wine and brandy, Huguenot fugitives; and, by the same means, secret agents carried back news of events in Paris to the Government. Having decided upon making for the coast without delay, Desmond and his friends next discussed the port to which they had best travel, and which seemed to offer the fairest opportunities. They agreed that Weymouth seemed to be most advantageous, as it was from there that the communications with Brittany were chiefly maintained. At the same time, it was evident that considerable difficulty would be experienced in discovering the men engaged in such traffic, and in making an arrangement with them, and it was all-important that no time should be lost, for there was no saying when the trial might come on. "If we could but get hold of Godolphin," Desmond said, next morning, "we might get an order, from him, to embark in one of the boats that carry his agents." The others laughed. "Yes; and if you could get hold of Anne, you might persuade her to sign an order for the release of our comrades." Desmond did not answer, but sat thinking for a few minutes. "It is not so impossible as you seem to imagine," he said, at last. "Doubtless, like everyone else, he goes in a sedan chair to the meeting of the council, and returns in the same manner. There are two ways in which we could manage the matter. Of course, he has his own chair, with his chair men in livery. We might either make these men drunk and assume their dress, or attack them suddenly on the way; then we should, of course, gag and bind them, and carry him here, or to some other place that we might decide upon, and force him to give us an order for the boatmen to take us across the channel, at once. Of course, we should have horses in readiness, and ride for the coast. We should have a twelve hours' start, for it would be that time before our landlady came in as usual, with our breakfast, when Godolphin would, of course, be released." The two officers looked at each other, astounded at the audacity of the scheme that Desmond had quietly propounded. O'Sullivan was the first to speak. "Are you really in earnest, Kennedy?" "Quite in earnest. I do not see why it should not be done." "Well, you are certainly the coolest hand I ever came across," O'Neil said. "You are proposing to seize the first minister in England, as if it were merely an affair of carrying off a pretty girl quite willing to be captured. The idea seems monstrous, and yet, as you put it, I do not see why it might not succeed." "I hardly think that it could fail," Desmond said quietly. "De Tulle managed to carry off the Baron de Pointdexter's daughter from the court of Versailles, and did so without any hitch or difficulty. Surely three Irishmen could arrange an affair of this sort as well as a French vicomte." "If it is to be done," O'Sullivan said, "I think the second plan is best. You might fail in making the chair men drunk, or at any rate sufficiently drunk to allow them to be despoiled of their clothes; whereas you could have no difficulty in silencing a couple of chair men by a sudden attack--a sharp rap on the head with these bludgeons ought to settle that affair." "Quite so," Desmond agreed; "and while Mike and one of us were so employed, the other two might throw open the doors of the chair, and gag Godolphin before he was conscious of what was happening." "It all seems simple enough, Kennedy, and, if it were a citizen, one would think nothing of the undertaking. But it is nothing short of high treason for us thus to make free with the person of the chief minister of England." "That is a matter that does not concern me at all, O'Neil. If we were captured now, we should be executed for high treason with the others; and if we carried off Anne herself, they could not do much more to us. "Now, it seems to me that if you are both agreed that we should carry out the plan, the first thing to be done is to arrange for horses; or, better still, for a light cart to carry the four of us. I should think that Mike would, among his acquaintances, be able to hear of a man with a couple of fast horses and such a cart as we require, who would agree to drive us to the coast, arranging a change of horses on the way. He could offer ten louis, which would be a sum that a man of that kind would be well satisfied with." "I will see to that, your honour. I have no doubt that I can find such a man without difficulty. When would you want him?" "Tonight, certainly, with the arrangement that, if we do not come to the appointed spot, we shall be there tomorrow night. Recollect ten louis is all we can afford, but if he wants any more, he must have it. "Well, we will leave that to you." Then he went on to the others: "We had better go down to Saint James's. Mike can go out and buy us three shock wigs, with which we can cover our hair and look our parts better. We had better separate when we get there, and watch the entrances to the palace, gazing about like rustics; then we can get into a conversation with any servant that we see, and try and find out from which door members of the council usually issue, and at about what hour. We could succeed without that, because we should notice the chairs waiting for them. Still, it is as well that we should get all the information we can. There will be, doubtless, personages leaving who have been with the Princess Anne. They might go out by another entrance, and therefore we should miss our man." "You will have more than the two chair men to deal with, your honour, for there are sure to be two link men with the chair." "Well, it will be as easy to dispose of four men as of two, Mike." "Every bit, your honour, and the more of them the more divarsion." An hour later they set out, now so well disguised that no one would have dreamt that the three Irishmen were officers in a French regiment; and before noon Desmond succeeded in obtaining, from a scullion employed in the palace, the particulars that he required. On saying that he had but just come to London, and wanted to get a sight of the great people, the present of a shilling sufficed to extract the information from the boy; and Desmond then rejoined his companions, and they at once returned to their lodgings, where they found Mike awaiting them. "I have managed it, your honour, but it will cost twelve louis. I went to the man from whom I got the saws, and he said at once that the affair could be managed easily, and, sure enough, he took me to the shop of a man who, he said, sometimes acted with cracksmen. The fellow was sharp enough to see, at once, that it was something special that we wanted the horses for, but after some bargaining he agreed to do it for twelve gold pieces, and, if necessary, to get a change of horses twice on the road. He will be ready with his cart at twelve o'clock, a hundred yards or so outside the last houses on the south side of the Old Kent Road. I could not tell him which port you would go to, but he said from there he could go to Dover, or turn off so as to make for Southampton or Weymouth. It is to be twelve pounds if it is to Dover or Southampton; fifteen pounds if it is to Weymouth." "That is satisfactory," Desmond said. "Now we have nothing else to do till ten o'clock tonight, when, as the boy said, the council generally ends; though we will be there an hour earlier, in case they should leave before. Now I think we had better find out where Godolphin's house is, and fix upon the best spot for the attack, and how we shall each station ourselves." This part of the business offered no difficulties. They found that the minister would probably be carried through Saint James's Park, and they fixed upon the spot where they would await his coming. Mike was to attack the first porter. O'Sullivan was to follow close behind him and, at the same moment, fell the rearmost man. O'Neil and Desmond, who were to conceal themselves among trees on opposite sides of the path, were to spring out and strike down the link bearers, and then enter the chair and bind and gag the minister. Mike was sent out to buy a pot of black paint, with which to efface the gildings of the chair, and to reduce its appearance to that ordinarily used by the citizens. He was ordered to get a supply of rope, and some wood, to make gags for the men they were to stun. The others were to post themselves at the spot agreed on, while Desmond was to remain at the entrance to the palace by which ministers would issue, to note Lord Godolphin's chair, and, when he was fairly on his way, to follow it for a short distance to make sure that it was being taken through the park, and then to run on and warn the others to be in readiness. On their return to their lodging, they ate the dinner that Mike had got in for them, and, as they drank their wine, laughed and joked over their enterprise; for, now that they were fairly embarked upon the scheme, the two officers were as eager as Desmond in the matter, and were much more excited over the prospect than he was. Before nine o'clock, they and Mike were posted in the park, and Desmond was at the entrance to the palace. Here seven or eight chairs, with their bearers and link men, were assembled. As most of the porters were hired men, Desmond readily entered into conversation with them, and expressed his desire to see the great persons and learn which were their chairs, so that he should know them as they entered them. In half an hour there was a stir, and a servant, coming out, shouted: "His Grace the Duke of Somerset's chair." This was at once brought up to the door. Next came a call for the chair of Mr. Henry Boyle, who was followed by Harcourt, the attorney general, then the chair of My Lord Godolphin was summoned. Desmond and three or four others, who had gathered to see the members of the council come out, had been ordered off by the sentries as soon as the first chair was called, but remained near enough to hear the names. To his satisfaction, Godolphin's chair was carried off in the direction they had anticipated, and he at once ran on and joined his companions. Presently, the lights carried by the two link men were seen approaching, and, as the chair came abreast of him, he shouted: "Now!" Almost simultaneously, the four heavy cudgels alighted on the heads of the four men, levelling them senseless to the ground; and O'Neil and Desmond sprang to the chair, and wrenched the door open, while O'Sullivan and Mike bound the four men, and thrust the gags into their mouths. Lord Godolphin had been thrown from his seat by the sudden fall of his bearers, and was seized and bound before he was conscious of what had happened. Then his captors assisted the others in carrying the fallen men to some distance from the path. A couple of minutes sufficed to cover the gilding and armorial bearings upon the chair. The torches were still burning on the ground. One of these was stamped out. Desmond took the other. Mike and O'Sullivan went between the poles, and adjusted the leathern straps over their shoulders, and started. Emerging from the park at Charing Cross, past the old church of Saint. Martin's in the Fields, and keeping round the walls to Holborn Bars, they made their way to their lodging, and Godolphin was carried into their room, which was on the ground floor. Mike and O'Neil then took the chair away, and left it in a narrow alley, where it was not likely to attract attention until the morning. Not until they returned was anything said to their prisoner. It had been agreed that O'Neil, as the senior, was to be spokesman of the party. "Lord Godolphin," he said, "I regret that circumstances have obliged us to use force towards you, but our necessities compel us to leave the country at once, and it has appeared to us that in no way could we get away so expeditiously as with the aid of your lordship. We will now set you free. I must tell you, beforehand, that if you attempt to raise your voice and give the alarm, we shall be constrained to blow out your brains." Mike now released him from the bonds, and removed the gag from his mouth, but for a time the minister was incapable of speech, being choked by anger at the treatment he had met with. "You will repent this outrage," he burst out, at last. "I think not, sir," O'Neil said, quietly. "At any rate, we are quite ready to take our chance of that. In order that you may feel at ease with us, I have no hesitation in telling you who we are. We are the three French officers who, as no doubt you have heard, yesterday escaped from Newgate, and we are anxious to get out of the country as soon as possible. It will be also a guarantee to you that we have no designs on either your pockets or your person." Angry as he still was, it was evident, by the expression of the treasurer's face, that the information was a relief to him, for indeed he had supposed that he had been carried off by political enemies, and was very uncertain as to what would befall him. "What is it that you require, then?" he asked, after a pause. "Merely this, sir. That you will give us an order, upon an agent through whom you communicate with France, to take us across the channel immediately." "Well, gentlemen," Godolphin said, more calmly, "I must say your coolness surprises me. Your escape yesterday was, of course, reported to us; and the manner in which you obtained that rope, by which you descended, is a mystery that the jail authorities are wholly unable to solve. "If you obtain the order you desire, will you give me your word of honour that it shall be used in a manner in no way hostile to the interests of this country, but solely, as you say, for the purpose of conveying you across the channel?" "That promise we give willingly. We must ask you to pledge your honour, as a gentleman, that the order you give us will be a genuine one--a matter that we cannot ascertain until we arrive at the address given. We are willing to play fairly with you, sir, but if you do not do the same, we shall certainly return to London, though in some different guise, and, if so, I warn you that no guards will save you from our vengeance." "You need not threaten, sir," Lord Godolphin said calmly. "I will give you the order, to the person to whom such communications are addressed, and it shall be couched in the same words as usual." Desmond placed a sheet of paper, pen, and ink before him. He, dating it from the Treasury, wrote: To John Dawkins, Mariner, High Street, Rye. Urgent. On the receipt of this, you will at once convey the bearer, and three persons with him, and land them in some convenient spot in France. He then added his signature. "Now, gentlemen, what next?" he said, looking up. O'Neil looked at his companions, and then they spoke for a moment together. "We are about to start at once, my lord," he said, "and it was our intention to have left you bound and gagged, until the morning, when the woman of the house would have assuredly found you and released you. But, as you have acceded to our request at once, we will, if you give us your word of honour that you will raise no alarm, and say no word of this business until eight o'clock tomorrow morning, let you depart at once." "Thank you for your courtesy, gentlemen, and for your confidence in my honour. I am, indeed, anxious to return home at once. If I do not do so, there will be a hue and cry for me, and by the time I return in the morning all London will know that I am missing. I naturally should not wish this adventure to become a matter of common talk: in the first place, because the position in which you have placed me can scarcely be called a pleasant one; and secondly, because the success of your enterprise might lead others to make similar attempts on my person, or that of my colleagues. Even now, I fear that my servants, when sufficiently recovered, will go to my house and give the alarm." "I do not think that that is likely to be the case, my lord," O'Neil said, "as we took the precaution of gagging and binding them, and laid them down some distance from the roadside. If, on your return home, you find they have not arrived, you have but to send a couple of your servants out to release them. You can give them strict orders that no word is to be said of the affair, and make them to understand you were attacked in error, and that the ruffians who took part in the outrage at once released you, upon discovering your identity." "Very good, sir," Godolphin said, with a grim smile. "I must really compliment you all on your fertility of resource and invention. And now, is there anything else that I can do for you?" "There is one small favour," Desmond said. "Your lordship has doubtless twenty guineas in your possession. You would greatly oblige us if you would give us them, for so many louis. These you will have no difficulty in exchanging, whereas the exhibition of French money, on our part, might excite suspicion." Lord Godolphin placed his hand in his pocket, drew out a heavy purse, and, opening it, counted out twenty guineas. O'Neil took these up, and handed to him twenty louis pieces. "One more question, gentlemen. What has become of my sedan chair?" "It is in an alley, hard by," O'Neil said, "and as we are ourselves going in your direction we will carry it to your door." "You are obliging, indeed, sir. If it had been found, the escutcheon on the panels would have shown that it was mine." "I fear, my lord, that you will have to have it repainted; for, before starting with you, we took the precaution to put black paint over the gilding and panels. Still, the lining and fittings would show that it belonged to some person of wealth and importance. As you have been so obliging to us, we will gladly escort you, with it, to your door." "I shall be glad, indeed, of that, gentlemen, for I certainly should not care about travelling alone through these lanes and alleys, which have by no means a good reputation." "We are ready to start at once, my lord," O'Neil said. "We have a long journey to perform, and, although there is now no need for extraordinary speed, we shall be glad to be off." They were ready at once, having settled with their landlady before starting out in the evening, telling her that they had heard of a job and should start early in the morning. Mike and Desmond fetched the empty chair, and they then started, Godolphin walking with the other officers in front. "This is the most surprising adventure that ever happened to me," Lord Godolphin said; "and it is a pity that officers who possess the wit to plan an escape from Newgate, and to ensure a speedy flight from the country by carrying me off, are not in the service of Her Majesty." "We may yet be in the British service some day, my lord," O'Sullivan laughed; "but I may tell you that my friend, and myself, disclaim any credit in contriving the matter of which you spoke, that being solely the work of our young comrade, who is at present the youngest ensign in our regiment." "Then he must be a shrewd fellow, indeed," Godolphin said, "likely to do service in any position to which he may attain." They walked sharply. Several times rough men came and peered at them, but Godolphin was wrapped in a cloak, and the appearance of those with him showed that hard knocks, rather than booty, would be the result of interfering with them. On reaching Lord Godolphin's house they placed the sedan chair on the steps. "Goodnight to you, gentlemen, and good fortune!" Lord Godolphin said. "The lesson has not been lost, and I shall take good care, in future, to have a strong escort." They then crossed Westminster Bridge, and made rapidly for the spot where the cart was waiting for them. "You are an hour after your time," the man said. "I had begun to think that something had gone wrong with you." "That is not the case," O'Neil said; "but we have certainly been detained longer than we anticipated." "Where are we going to?" "To Rye." "That will suit me very well," the man said. "I have friends along that road, and shall have no trouble about horses." They started at once, at a rattling pace, the animals, though but sorry-looking creatures, being speedy and accustomed to long journeys. It was evident, from the man's manner, that he believed his passengers were cracksmen who had just successfully carried out an enterprise of importance. He expressed surprise that they had brought no luggage with them. They did not care to undeceive him. Mike had brought with him a bottle of good brandy, and a drink of this soon removed the vexation the man had felt at being kept waiting for them. Twice during the journey they changed horses, each time at small wayside inns, where some password, given by the driver, at once roused the landlord into activity. But a few minutes were spent in the changes, and the fifty miles to Rye were accomplished in seven hours--a very unusual rate of speed along the badly kept roads of the period. When the car drew up in the High Street of Rye, the four occupants were scarce able to stand, so bruised and shaken were they by their rapid passage over the rough road. They handed the twelve pounds agreed upon to the driver, adding another as a token of their satisfaction at the speed at which he had driven them, and then enquired for the house of William Dawkins. It was close by, and upon knocking at the door, it was opened by the man himself. "I have a message to deliver to you, in private," O'Neil said. The man nodded, and led the way indoors, where the letter was handed to him. "That is all right," he said. "My craft is always ready to set sail, at an hour's notice, and if the wind holds fair I will land you on the French coast before nightfall. I see that your business is urgent, or you would not have put on disguises before leaving London. I suppose you have brought other clothes to land in?" "We have not," O'Neil said. "We came away in such a hurry that we did not think of it until on the road, and then we thought that we might procure them here." "There will be no difficulty about that," the sailor said. "I will go out, and warn my men that we shall sail in half an hour, and then I can get any garments that you desire; for, doubtless, you do not wish to attract comment by the purchase of clothes that would seem unfitted to your present position." "That is so," O'Sullivan said, "and we shall gladly embrace your offer. We should like three suits, such as are worn by persons of fair position in France, and one proper for a serving man." "I cannot get you quite French fashion, sir, but they do not differ much from our own; and with a cloak each, I have no doubt that you would pass without attracting attention--that is, of course, if you speak French well." "As well as English," O'Neil said. "Here are seven pounds in gold, which will, I should think, be sufficient. If not, we are provided with French gold, for use after landing there." "I have no doubt it will suffice, sir. If not, I will pay what is the excess, and you can settle with me afterwards." In three-quarters of an hour after their arrival at Rye, they were dressed in their new disguises and on board the little lugger, which at once started down the river, which was at that time much more free from shoals and difficulties than it is at present. "Your boat seems fast," Desmond remarked, as, having cleared the mouth of the river, she put out to sea. "She is fast, sir; the fastest thing that sails out of Rye. She needs be, for the gentlemen who come to me are always in a hurry." "I suppose you have no fear of English cruisers?" "Not at all. I have the order you brought with you, and have only to show it to any English ship of war that overhauls us, for them to let us go on at once. I am careful when I get near the French coast, for although their big craft never venture out far, there are numbers of chasse-maree patrolling the coast. However, even if caught by them, it would be but a temporary detention, for I am well known at Etaples, which is always my port, unless specially directed to land my passengers elsewhere." The wind was fresh and favourable, and at six o'clock in the afternoon they entered the little port. Some gendarmes came down to the wharf. "We need have no fear of them," William Dawkins said. "Their lieutenant is paid handsomely for keeping his eyes shut, and asking no questions." "So you are back again," the officer said. "Why, it is not a week since you were here!" "No, it is but six days since I sailed." "And you have four passengers?" "That's the number, sir. The Irish gentlemen are desirous of entering the service of France." The officer nodded. "Well, gentlemen, you will find plenty of your countrymen in Paris; and, as everyone knows, there are no better or braver soldiers in His Majesty's service." The friends had already enquired, from William Dawkins, whether there was any passage money to pay, saying that they had forgotten to ask before starting. "Not at all. I am well paid by Government. My boat is always retained at a price that suits me well, and I get so much extra for every voyage I make. No, sir, thank you; I will take nothing for myself, but if you like to give half a guinea to the crew, to drink success to you, I will not say no." The party made no stay at Etaples, but at once ordered a chaise and post horses. Then, changing at every post house, and suffering vastly less discomfort than they experienced in the journey to Rye--the roads being better kept in France than they were on the English side of the channel--they arrived in Paris at eleven o'clock next day.	{ "id": "18349" }
11	: On the Frontier.	On entering the barrack yard, they found that the regiment had marched, ten days before, for the frontier, and that Lord Galmoy's regiment had taken their place. They went at once to his quarters and told him that, having effected their escape, they had travelled with all speed to inform the king of the determination of the English Government to bring the Irish officers to execution, and to implore him to intervene in their favour. "I will go with you to Versailles, at once," Lord Galmoy said; "but, as you have no uniforms, and the king is very strict on matters of etiquette, three of my officers will lend you their suits and swords. While they are being fetched, sit down and share my meal, for doubtless you have not waited to eat on the road." He then gave the necessary instructions, and half an hour later the three officers, now in uniform, started with him on horseback for Versailles. The king had just returned from hunting, and it was an hour before Lord Galmoy could obtain an audience with him. He had, on the road, told the others he felt sure that the king, who was well served by his agents in London, had already heard of the intention of the English Government, but as to whether he had sent off a remonstrance he was of course ignorant. "I shall press the matter strongly upon him, and point out the deep feeling that will be excited, throughout his Irish and Scotch troops, if nothing is done to save the prisoners. "Louis is a politic monarch," he said, "and, knowing our worth and that of his Scotch soldiers, I think that he will, on my representations, bestir himself. Wauchop has many times performed brilliant services, and deserves well of France. However, we shall see." When they were admitted to the audience, Lord Galmoy introduced the three soldiers of O'Brien's regiment as coming that morning to Paris, having effected their escape from Newgate. As he repeated their names, the king looked sharply at Desmond. "Ah, ah!" he said, "so our young ensign is in the thick of adventures again. These we will hear presently. "Well, my lord, why have they come here so hurriedly after their arrival?" "They came to inform Your Majesty that the English Government have determined to execute Colonel Francis Wauchop, and the twelve officers of their regiment who were on board the Salisbury, captured on the coast of Scotland." Desmond, who was watching the king's face closely, saw that this was no news to him, and that he was annoyed by its being now brought to his notice; for doubtless the fate of a colonel, and a dozen young officers, was a matter that affected him little; and that, had the matter not been forced upon him, he would not have troubled about it, but, when it was too late, would have professed entire ignorance of the intentions of the English Government. He only said, however, "It is incredible that there can be an intention to execute officers in our service, captured upon a warlike expedition." "It is but too true, sir. Against Colonel Wauchop they have no ground for severity. By the convention of Limerick, he and all other officers were formally permitted to enter Your Majesty's service; but the young lieutenants have, of course, joined long since that time, and therefore cannot benefit by the terms of the convention; and could, with a show of justice, be executed as English subjects, traitors serving against their country." "We are afraid that our remonstrance would have but little effect with the English Government." Lord Galmoy smiled slightly, for it was notorious that negotiations had gone on between King James and his councillors, and several of the members of the English Ministry, Marlborough himself being more than suspected of having a secret understanding with the little court at Saint Germain. He only said, however, "Your Majesty has in your hands the power of compelling the English Government to alter their determination in this matter." "How so, my lord?" the king asked, in much surprise. "You have, sire, many prisoners, Frenchmen of the reformed religion, who had entered the service of the Protestant princes--your enemies--and who were taken in Dutch and Flemish towns we have captured. These stand in the same relation towards Your Majesty as the Irish officers towards England. You have, then, but to inform the government there that, if they in any way harm the Irish officers and noncommissioned officers in their hands, you will at once execute a similar number of these French Protestant officers, whom you have hitherto treated as prisoners of war. Then, possibly, an exchange might be effected. "Your Majesty will, I think, pardon me for saying that, unless steps are taken to save these officers' lives, the matter is likely to have a very bad effect on the Irish and Scotch regiments, whose ardour will not be improved by the knowledge that in case of a reverse they will, if not killed in the field, be executed as traitors; for nearly half of the men who are now serving have joined since the formation of the Brigade, and are not protected by the terms of the Limerick treaty. They are devoted to Your Majesty's service, and are ready to lay down their lives freely for the cause of France; but it would not be fair that they should also run the risk of execution, if they are by misfortune made prisoners." "There is much in what you say, Lord Galmoy, and you certainly point out a way by which these officers can be saved. A messenger shall start, in an hour's time, with a letter to the English Government. It shall be delivered at their headquarters in Flanders by noon tomorrow, with a request that it shall be forwarded by special messenger to the British minister; and we will have a proclamation posted in Paris, and in the various camps of the army, saying that we have warned the English Government that, unless the officers and men captured off the coast of Scotland are treated as prisoners of war, we shall retaliate by treating all French officers taken in foreign service in the same way; and that we have furthermore offered to exchange an equal number of such officers and men, in our hands, for those held by the British Government." "I thank Your Majesty, most respectfully and heartily, in the name of all the foreign officers in your service. Even should, unfortunately, the English Government refuse to pardon or exchange their prisoners, it will be seen that Your Majesty has done all in your power to save them, and there will be a general feeling of reprobation, throughout Europe, at the conduct of the English Ministry." "We beg these officers to wait in the anteroom, while we dictate our despatch and proclamation to our secretary. We would fain question them as to how they effected their escape from their prison, and how they have made so speedy a journey here." Lord Galmoy bowed, and retired with the others. "We have done well," he said, "better indeed than I had hoped. Now, having succeeded in saving our countrymen's lives, which I doubt not would have been otherwise sacrificed, I shall return at once to Paris, for there is an inspection of my regiment this afternoon." "We have been fortunate, indeed," O'Neil said, when Lord Galmoy had left. "I have no doubt the king had heard that the English Government had resolved to execute the prisoners, but I question whether he would have stirred in the matter, had it not been for Galmoy's representation." "I am sure, by his manner, that he had received the news before," Desmond said, "and, as you say, had not intended to interfere. It was the suggestion that he might threaten retaliation, and that the effect of his not moving in the matter would be very bad among his Irish troops, that decided him to interfere. He may have felt that any mere protest made by him would have had little effect, and it is not his nature to expose himself to a rebuff; but, directly he saw that he had an effective weapon in his hands, he took the matter up as warmly as we could wish." In point of fact, the king's threat had the desired effect, and two months later the imprisoned officers and men were exchanged for an equal number of Huguenots. In a quarter of an hour, the three officers were again summoned to the king's presence. With him was a tall dark officer, of distinguished mien, whom O'Neil and O'Sullivan both recognized as the Duke of Berwick, one of the most famous generals of the time. He had been in command of the French forces in Spain, from which he had been recalled suddenly, two days before, in order that the king, who had a great confidence in him, might consult him as to the general plan of operations, in that country and in the north, before despatching him to join the army in Flanders. This was commanded by the Duke of Burgundy and the Duke of Vendome jointly; and as both were headstrong and obstinate, and by no means agreed as to the operations to be undertaken, the king had determined to send Berwick there, in order that he might, by his military genius and influence, bring matters to a better state between the two dukes, and arrange with them some definite plan by which the tide of fortune, which had hitherto gone against the French, might be arrested. The king appeared now to be in a good humour. "And now, young sirs," he said, "I have an hour at leisure, and would fain hear a true account of your adventures, omitting nothing. "I have no doubt, Monsieur Kennedy, that your ready wit had no small share in the matter." "With your permission, Sire, I will tell the story," O'Neil said, "for Mr. Kennedy is not likely to place his own share of the work in its due prominence." The king nodded, and O'Neil gave a detailed account of the manner in which they had made their escape, and succeeded in getting themselves conveyed across the channel in a vessel in the Government service, explaining that both affairs were due entirely to Desmond's initiative and ingenuity. The king listened with great interest, and even laughed at the story of the capture of Lord Godolphin. "You have all three behaved extremely well," he said. "You, Monsieur Kennedy, have again shown that you possess unusual shrewdness, as well as daring. "What think you, Duke, of this young subaltern, who is, we may tell you, the hero of whom you have doubtless heard, who twice rescued Mademoiselle de Pointdexter from the hands of her abductor?" "I was told the story yesterday, Sire, and was filled with admiration at the boldness and resource of her rescuer, who was, I heard, an ensign in O'Brien's regiment; but certainly I did not expect to find him so young a man. He has, indeed, a fertility of invention that fills me with surprise. The other officers deserve praise, for having so willingly followed the leadership of their junior, and their generosity in assigning to him the whole merit of their undertaking is highly commendable. It is no easy thing, Sire, to find in young officers--especially, if I may say so, among the cadets of good family, who form for the most part the staff of your generals--men ready to exercise their own discretion when in difficulties, and to carry out with due diligence the orders committed to them." "O'Brien's regiment has marched to the northern frontier. The vacancies in the ranks of its officers have been filled up from those of other regiments. I should, with Your Majesty's permission, be glad to take these three officers on my own staff, as, leaving Spain privately in accordance with Your Majesty's orders, I have brought with me only Captain Fromart, my secretary, and one young aide-de-camp. I should be glad if you would promote Mr. Kennedy to the rank of lieutenant." "We quite approve of both requests," the king said graciously; "and indeed," he added with a smile, "shall not be altogether sorry to see Lieutenant Kennedy employed outside our kingdom, for, after making war on his own account with one of our nobles, and kidnapping the first minister of England, there is no saying what enterprise he might next undertake. And should he join any of those who trouble the country with their plots, we should feel compelled to double our guards, in order to hold ourself secure from his designs. "Well, gentlemen, since the Duke of Berwick has appointed you his aides-de-camp, the least we can do is to see that you are properly fitted out for the expedition. You have, of course, lost your uniforms, horses, and money in our service, and it is but just that we should see to your being refitted. If you will wait in the anteroom, you shall each receive an order on our treasury for a hundred louis d'ors." The three officers bowed deeply in acknowledgment to the king, and, bowing also to the Duke of Berwick, returned to the anteroom, where presently one of the royal attendants brought to them the three orders on the treasury, and also begged them, in the name of the Duke of Berwick, to wait until his audience with the king should be over. They were all highly delighted with the change in their position. The posts of staff officers were, as the duke had said, considered to belong almost of right to members of noble families, and it was seldom that officers of the line could aspire to them. "Did I not tell you, Kennedy, that your luck would bring good fortune to us all! And, by the powers, it has done so! Faith, if anyone had said a month ago that I should by now be on the Duke of Berwick's staff, I should have laughed in his face, if indeed I had not quarrelled with him for mocking at me. And now here we are, with money to buy horses and outfit, and with no more drilling recruits and attending parades." "But not an end to work, O'Sullivan," Desmond Kennedy said. "You won't find much idle time, when you are serving with the duke." "No. He has the name of being a strict commander, sparing neither himself nor his soldiers; and I have heard that his staff have a very hard time of it. However, I am not afraid of hard work, when it is done on horseback, and there are many more chances of promotion on the staff than there are in marching regiments. Well, I don't mind being taken prisoner a dozen times if this is what comes of it, providing always that you are taken with me, Kennedy, and are there to help me out of the scrape." "We should have to have Mike prisoner, too," Desmond laughed, "for without his help we should be in Newgate at present." "I don't believe it. I am sure that, even if he hadn't turned up, you would have managed somehow." In a short time, the duke came out. "I am likely to be detained here another week, before I start for Flanders. That will give you time to procure your outfit of horses and equipments and arms. You will require two horses each, and these should be good ones. I doubt whether, if you get proper outfits, the sum that His Majesty has given you will suffice to buy two horses. I have, however, in my stables here, plenty of good animals that have been taken from the enemy, and one will be given to each of you. Therefore, it will be only necessary for you to purchase one. "I am staying here, and should be obliged, when you have taken a lodging, if you would send me your address. I shall then let you know where and when you are to join me. Is there anything else that you would ask me?" "I would ask, sir, that I might take my servant with me," Desmond said. "Certainly; and you can do so without further question. One man, more or less, will make no difference to O'Brien's regiment, and it would be a pity that you should not have him with you, for it is evident that he is at once faithful, and possesses a large amount of shrewdness." After thanking the duke for the present of the horses, the three officers, having drawn their money, left the palace and rode back to Paris. They went first to the barracks, and returned the horses and uniforms, with many thanks, to the officers who had lent them; had an interview with Lord Galmoy, and informed him of their new appointments. "You have well won them," he said, "and I wish you every good fortune. Assuredly, you are more likely to rise under the Duke of Berwick than as subaltern in the Irish Brigade, though promotion is not slow there, owing to the vacancies that battle always makes in their ranks." They went out and took a lodging together, and then went to a military tailor, who promised them their undress and full dress suits in four days. Then they ordered military saddles, bridles, and equipments. On the next day, after visiting half the stables in Paris, they purchased three horses for themselves, and Desmond bought, in addition, a serviceable animal for Mike, with a cavalry saddle and accoutrements, and ordered a uniform for him. Each provided himself with a sword and a brace of pistols. Mike was greatly pleased when Desmond communicated his promotion and appointment to him. "You will look grand, your honour, as a general's aide-de-camp, with your handsome uniform and your horses and all that, and 'tis glad I am that we are going to Flanders, for, from all I have heard from men who have fought in Spain, little pleasure is to be had in campaigning there. The food is vile, the roads are bad. You are choked with dust and smothered with heat. "As to their making you lieutenant, if you had your dues, it would be a colonel they should have made you, or at any rate a major." "There is plenty of time, Mike," Desmond laughed. "A nice colonel I should look, too, leading a thousand men into battle. If I obtain a majority in another fifteen years, I shall consider myself lucky." Desmond did not share Mike's gratification that they were to campaign with the army of the north, instead of with that in Spain. However, as he would be fighting against English troops in either country, he concluded it would not make much difference, especially as, being an aide-de-camp, he would not himself have to enter into actual conflict with them. His friends were heartily glad that their destination was not Spain, for all had, like Mike, heard much of the hardships suffered by the troops in that country. "I know from what you have said, Kennedy, that if you had had your choice you would have taken Spain, but, putting aside the heat there, it is but poor work, by all accounts. You are well-nigh starved, you can't get at your enemy, who knows all the mountains and the paths over them, is as difficult to catch as one of their fleas, harasses you while you are on the march, and shirks fighting as the old one shirks holy water. There has only been one fight which could be called a battle since the war began; and as for the sieges, it means that you lose a lot of men, and have little credit when you take a place, especially as the moment you go out one way the enemy enter on the other side, and there is all the work to be done over again." "I admit that we shall see a great deal more of war in the north," Kennedy said, "and Marlborough and Eugene on the other side, and the Dukes of Berwick and Vendome on ours, are such skilful commanders that there will be far greater interest in the operations, than in carrying on what is little more than a partisan war in Spain." "Not only that," O'Neil put in, "but there will be a possibility of getting decent food. While in Spain there are few great towns, and these a long distance from each other; in Flanders there are towns every few miles, and you are sure of decent quarters and good cooking." "Why, O'Neil, I did not know that you were particular as to your food," Desmond laughed. "I can starve as well as another, Kennedy, but when I get good food and good wine and good lodgings, I own that I prefer it vastly to the fare that our troops have to put up with, in Spain. I can see no reason why, because you are going to risk your life in battle, you should put up with all sorts of miseries and inconveniences beforehand, if they can be avoided. "As to fighting against the English, there are English both in Spain and Flanders, and in both armies they form but a small proportion of the force, though I grant willingly that they are the backbone of both armies. If you look at the thing sensibly, you will see that we have gained no slight advantage by Berwick's going to Flanders, instead of returning to Spain." Three days after their preparations were completed, an orderly brought a note from the Duke of Berwick. It was brief and to the point. The rendezvous is at six o'clock tomorrow morning, in front of La Louvre. (Signed) Berwick. All were glad that the summons had come. They had discussed the future from every point of view, and were already growing impatient, short as their stay had been in Paris. Five minutes before the hour, they were at the rendezvous. As the clock struck, the duke rode up with two officers and an escort of six troopers. He looked at their accoutrements and horses, and nodded his head approvingly. "You will do very well," he said. "I can tell you that the gloss of your uniforms will not last long, in Flanders." The other officers were Captain Fromart, who acted as the duke's secretary, and Lieutenant d'Eyncourt. Mike fell in with the escort, behind which also rode the body servant of the duke, and the two cavalry men who were the servants of his officers. Once beyond the limits of the town, the party broke into a trot. The duke rode on ahead, evidently in deep thought, and the five officers followed in a group. "I see, messieurs," d'Eyncourt said, "that only one of you has brought a servant with him." "We only arrived in Paris a week ago," O'Neil said. "Our own regiment had left, and we did not care to ask for two soldiers from another regiment, as these might have turned out badly. We thought it better, therefore, to delay until we joined the army, and wait till we could obtain a couple of good men from one of the cavalry regiments there. As it is, Monsieur Kennedy's servant can look after the three of us, and, I have no doubt, two of the soldiers of the escort will not object to earn a few livres by looking after our horses on the way." "I think you are right," the other said. "If one gets a good man, a soldier servant is invaluable. If, as is often the case, he is a bad one, well, one is far better without him. It is curious how men who have been smart soldiers, when in the ranks, are apt to go to the bad when they become servants. They have more time on their hands, are free from most of the parades, have no sentry duty to perform, and the consequence is that they become slovenly and careless, and in nine cases out of ten give way to drink at every opportunity. If Mr. Kennedy's servant is really a good one, you will be better off, with a third of his services, than you would be with the whole of that of an ordinary soldier servant. "You have just returned from England, have you not? The duke told Captain Fromart that you were among those who were captured in the Salisbury, but that you had made your escape. He gave no particulars, for indeed, the duke is not given to much speech. As a general he is splendid, but it would be more pleasant for his staff if he were to unbend a little." "Yes, we managed to give them the slip," O'Neil said, "thanks to Monsieur Kennedy and his servant. Did you return from Spain with the general, Captain Fromart?" "Yes. There was nothing doing at the moment, and he gave us the option of accompanying him or staying behind. We vastly preferred the trip, as we considered it, for of course we had no idea that the duke was about to be sent to Flanders. You hear a good deal of the climate of Spain. It is said to be lovely. I vow that it is detestable. The heat, when it is hot, is terrible, and when it is not hot, there is a bitter wind that chills you to the bone. A great portion of the country is but half populated, and you can go a day's march without coming to a village. The roads are villainous. There is nothing to buy, and it is as much as the transport can do to get, I will not say enough bread, but a bare sufficiency to maintain the troops. Moreover, the duke has been constantly thwarted in his plans by the Spaniards, who are ready enough to make promises, but never take a single step towards their fulfilment. The duke's temper is of the shortest, and he has quarrelled openly with most of the leading Spaniards, and has threatened, four or five times, to throw up his command and return to France. He did do so a year ago, but affairs went so badly, without him, that the cause of France was seriously imperilled by his absence, and it was at the urgent request of Philip that he returned; for at that time the English general, Peterborough, was striking dismay all over the country, and if the duke's advice had not been taken, all our officers acknowledge that we should speedily have crossed the Pyrenees." "And do the population incline towards Philip or the Austrian?" "As a rule, they incline towards the party which seems likely to win. They would shout in Madrid as loudly for the Archduke Charles as for Philip. Catalonia and Valencia are the exceptions. There the balance of feeling is certainly in favour of the Austrian, but this is principally because they are afraid of Peterborough, whom they regard as almost supernatural, and fear he would take vengeance upon those who deserted his cause. But there is no accounting for them; cities have held out as stoutly for one candidate as for the other, without any apparent reason, so far as we can observe. "We fight for Philip because he is Louis's grandson, and it is important in the interest of France to stand closely allied with his party. But as for the Spaniards with us, I can tell you that we have but little trust in them." "But some of them are good, are they not?" "We do not consider any of them of much account. But then the Spaniards on the other side are no better. They seem to have lost all their military virtues, ever since their best troops were demolished at Rocroi by Conde. That and the destruction of their fleet by the English, and the drain of their resources both in men and money, entailed by the long war in Holland, altogether deprived the people of their martial spirit. The war is to some extent between the English and us, because, of the allies England, Holland, and Austria, neither the Austrians nor the Dutch take any great share in the struggle. The Dutch are wholly engrossed with the defence of their fens, the Austrians are fully occupied in Italy and on the Rhine frontier, and it is only the English, who, fortunately, are not very numerous, who are against us, for the Portuguese can scarcely be counted in the business, being, if anything, slower and more stupid than the Spaniards themselves. "However, at present the prospect is good. Peterborough has gone. Galway's army has been almost destroyed; though, to do them justice, the English regiments fought magnificently, and if they had been seconded by the Portuguese the result might have been altogether different." "Then you found Spain much less rich than France?" "There is no comparison," Captain Fromart said. "It ought to be fully as rich, but the plains lie almost uncultivated. The people seem wholly without energy, and the ruling class are always intriguing, and seem to pay little attention to their estates. You see but few castles and chateaux, such as are dotted over France. I do not say that, at the present moment, France can be considered a prosperous country in material matters. The expenses of the wars have been enormous, to say nothing of the Court. The people are ground down by taxation, and the misery in some parts of the country is extreme; but left to themselves the people will work, and work hard. Our soil will grow anything, and after twenty years of peace, France would altogether recover herself." "And yet the alliance of Spain is considered as of vital importance to France!" "Of great importance, certainly. Spain has still soldiers who can fight well, as they have proved in Italy; and were the levies at home equally well drilled and disciplined, they would no doubt turn out good soldiers. But these are, at present, almost undrilled. They desert in numbers and return to their homes, after the slightest reverse, and prefer to act as partisans under leaders of their own choosing. But with Philip once firmly seated on the throne, with French advisers and officers to assist him, and a few regiments to serve as a nucleus to his army, Spain could turn out a force which would be a very valuable addition to the strength of any European power. With Spain as our ally we can, in addition to the force that she can put in the field, neglect altogether our southern frontier, and employ our whole army elsewhere. With her as an ally of Austria or of England, we should have to keep an army in the south to guard our borders." Two days after leaving Paris, the party arrived at Peronne, where a considerable body of troops were collected, of which, although an aide-de-camp, Desmond now learned for the first time the duke was to take the command. No movements of importance had taken place in the field, and as the force at Peronne still wanted several regiments, to bring it up to the intended strength, some weeks passed before it was set in motion. The four aides-de-camp, however, had a busy time of it. The main army was stationed in the neighbourhood of Lille, and frequent communications passed between Berwick and Vendome. The allies were inactive. Eugene had, early in April, met Marlborough at the Hague, and had concerted with him the plan for the campaign. He had then gone to Vienna to bring up reinforcements, and until these arrived Marlborough hardly felt in a position to take the offensive, as the French armies were considerably stronger than his own, and he had not yet been joined by the troops from Hanover. Except to receive orders, the aides-de-camp saw little of their commander. He was absorbed in the difficult problems of the war, and was occasionally absent for two or three days at the camp of Vendome. He always spoke kindly to them when on duty, but at other times dispensed altogether with their attendance, and as a rule took his meals alone. "You see him at his worst," d'Eyncourt said one day to his new comrades, "He is a different man when he is in the field. Then he is full of life and activity, looking into every detail himself, endeavouring to infuse some of his own energy into others, full of care for the comfort of his troops, though ready to endure any hardship himself. Then you see the real man; a noble character, idolized by the soldiers and loved by us all. You must not judge him, in the slightest degree, by what he now is. He has a great deal on his mind, and has, so it is whispered, no small trouble in keeping the peace between Vendome and Burgundy. The failure, too, of the expedition to Scotland must have greatly disappointed him, and I have no doubt he expected to be put at the head of any French army sent over to place James upon the throne. However, he may congratulate himself now that he was not with it, for no honour and no gain has been earned by any concerned in it." "That certainly is so," Desmond agreed. "It was a mismanaged affair altogether. To begin with, twenty thousand men should have been sent instead of six thousand; and in the next place, the fleet should have assembled at Brest or Bordeaux, for in that case, although the news of its assembling would assuredly have reached England, it would not have been known whether it was intended that the landing should be made in Ireland, Scotland, or on the English coast, while by gathering at Dunkirk no doubt was left as to the destination. This was proved by the fact that, when the English fleet watching the port was driven off by a gale, and an opportunity was thus given for a start, instead of coming back again, as we had hoped, only to find that we had left, it sailed straight for the north, making absolutely certain that we were bound for Edinburgh." "Well, we must hope," O'Sullivan said, "that next time the force will, as you say, be fully twenty thousand men, will include the Irish Brigade, will be led by Berwick, and will land in Ireland." At this moment an orderly entered. "The duke requires your attendance, Lieutenant Kennedy." Desmond at once went to the duke's apartments. "You will start at once for Lille, Mr. Kennedy, and will report yourself to Marshal Vendome. I have arranged with him that one of my aides-de-camp shall accompany the force that is about to advance, and shall keep me informed of what is being done. I have selected you because I know you to be active and shrewd. The marshal is too much occupied to send me such full reports as I should wish, and I look to you not only to give me facts, but to convey to me your impressions of what you see passing around you. Do not fear to speak plainly. Your communications will be strictly private, and your views will be thus of far more use to me than the official expressions of the marshal and his staff. "You will, of course, take your servant with you, and I have told off three troopers to accompany you, for the purpose of bringing your reports to me. There is no probability of a general engagement at present, and until we obtain some idea of Marlborough's plans, no extensive operations will be undertaken." From the manner in which he spoke, Desmond had no doubt that Berwick himself was in favour of taking the initiative without delay, but that he had been overruled. It was indeed of importance to the French that, before advancing, they should secure possession of the towns of west Flanders, so that the great roads would all be open to them. Half an hour after leaving the duke, Desmond was in the saddle, and, followed by the four soldiers, rode for Vendome's camp. According to instructions he halted for the night at Arras, and reached Lille at ten the next morning. He at once presented himself to the marshal, and handed to him the letter from Berwick, of which he was the bearer. The duke glanced through it. "I have been expecting you, Lieutenant Kennedy, and have arranged that you shall mess and ride with the junior officers of my staff. I will order a tent to be erected for you, at once. Should any portion of my force move without me, I have arranged that you shall accompany it. You will find many of your compatriots in camp, for we have five battalions of the Irish Brigade with us, among them that of O'Brien, to which the Duke of Berwick informed me you belonged before you were appointed to his staff, having distinguished yourself markedly on several occasions." The marechal-de-camp coming in, Vendome placed Desmond in his charge, requesting him to introduce him to the various officers of his staff, with whom he would have to mess, and to see that he was well cared for. He was well received by the young French officers, all of whom, with scarce an exception, belonged to good families, and Desmond was not long in discovering that they regarded their occupation rather as a pleasant and exciting diversion, than as a matter of duty, and that the greater portion of their time was devoted to pleasure. They rode, practised with the pistol and rapier, made excursions into the country, dined, and spent their evenings as if the army were nonexistent. A few only, and these were men who had served as officers, took their profession seriously, and divided among themselves what work had to be done, the young nobles gladly relinquishing it to them.	{ "id": "18349" }
12	: Oudenarde.	Desmond did not remain long at the marshal's camp, but accompanied expeditions that were sent to Bruges, Ghent, and Ypres. The inhabitants of these towns had, for some time, been in communication with the marshal. They were hostile to the English, and had a standing feud, of many years' duration, with the Dutch. As soon, therefore, as the French columns approached, they opened their gates. The weak garrisons that had been placed there, finding themselves unable to at once control the population and defend the walls, evacuated the town before the French arrived. Beyond writing confidential reports to Berwick, Desmond had had little to do, and spent most of his time with his own regiment, by whom he was heartily welcomed, and with the other Irish battalions encamped near them. He and the other officers captured in the Salisbury had been given up as lost by their comrades; and the appearance of Desmond, in his staff uniform, was the first intimation they had received of his escape, of which he had more than once to give a detailed account. In doing this, he made no mention of the seizure of Lord Godolphin. He knew that the minister was anxious that this should not get abroad, and, as he had behaved fairly to them, Desmond considered that he ought to remain silent on the subject; and merely said that, on their arrival at Rye, they had made an arrangement with a man who was in the habit of conveying persons secretly, to or from France, to take them across the channel. "You amaze me more and more, Kennedy," the colonel said. "Six months ago, when you joined, you seemed to me little more than a boy, and yet you have been through adventures that demanded the brain and courage of a veteran. We missed you all much; but I hope we shall soon get the others back again, for I had news the other day, from Paris, that arrangements for their exchange were going on, and no doubt they will rejoin as soon as they land. "There is little chance of you, O'Neil and O'Sullivan coming back to the regiment; but, at any rate, as Berwick's force is sure to join ours, as soon as operations begin in earnest, we shall often see you." It was the end of June before the main army advanced. Desmond had returned to Peronne after the capture of the three Flemish towns, and was warmly praised by Berwick for the manner in which he had carried out the work entrusted to him. On the 6th of July, he received orders to accompany the duke. "There is bad news," Captain Fromart said, entering the room where the four aides-de-camp were together. "You know the marshal had commenced the siege of Oudenarde. We have news now that the enemy has suddenly advanced towards him, and he has been obliged to raise the siege, and fall back across the Scheldt. The troops are to go forward at once. The duke will ride on, with all speed, in accordance with Vendome's urgent request. All four of you are to go on with him. I shall accompany the force here. "There is no time to be lost. The duke's horse is to be at the door in a quarter of an hour, and it will not please him to be kept waiting. You had better leave your spare horses, for the present. I have already warned the escort." It was a short notice, but by the time named the four aides-de-camp were in their saddles, as were their soldier servants, for by this time Desmond's two friends had obtained servants from a dragoon regiment. They were but just in time, for they had scarcely mounted when the duke came out, sprang into his saddle, and went off at a canter. The distance was some fifty miles. They stopped once for two hours, to refresh themselves and their horses, and rode into Vendome's camp soon after nightfall. A large tent had been already erected for Berwick's use, close to that of the marshal; and another, close by, for the use of the officers who might come with him. A quarter of an hour later, a soldier entered the aides-de-camp's tent, with a large tray. "The Duke of Berwick bids me say, gentlemen, that he is supping with the marshal, who has sent these dishes to you from his own table." "Please to give our thanks to the Duke of Vendome, for his kindness," Desmond said; but when the soldier had left the tent, he went on, "I have no doubt that this is the result of a suggestion on the part of Berwick, and greatly obliged to him we must feel. We had just been saying that we supposed we should get nothing to eat till tomorrow morning, while here is a supper worthy of the marshal, and four flasks of wine, which I doubt not are good." It was ten o'clock before the duke returned to his tent, when he at once sent for his aides-de-camp. "There will be nothing more for you to do, tonight, gentlemen. Sleep soundly, for we shall have a hard day's work tomorrow. We are to cross the Scheldt again at daybreak. The enemy are on the other side of the Dender, and the next day a pitched battle will probably be fought. You may be surprised that we do not wait until my forces arrive, but we have heard that Eugene's reinforcements are within two days' march of Marlborough, and, as they are more numerous than those I command, it has been decided to accept battle at once. Good night." "The general is in a good temper," d'Eyncourt said, as they reentered their tent. "I expect that his views have been adopted, and that there was a warm discussion over them." This was indeed the case. The Duke of Burgundy, an obstinate man without any knowledge of war, had been in favour of pushing forward, crossing the Lys as well as the Scheldt, and attacking the allies as soon as they met them. Vendome, on the other hand, was of opinion that the army which was now collected near Ghent had better advance against Oudenarde, which might be carried by a coup de main before Marlborough could come to its assistance, which he might be some days in doing, seeing that he was in command of a mixed force, composed of Dutch, Danes, Hanoverians, Prussians, and British. Burgundy then maintained that they should retire, and fight near Ypres, where they would be close to the frontier, and could retire upon Lille in case matters went against them. Berwick, however, at last managed to persuade him to agree to Vendome's plan, as the capture of Oudenarde was a matter of the utmost importance, and it would be as easy to fall back thence to Lille as it would be from Ypres. This Burgundy had sullenly assented to, and the next morning the army marched to the position fixed upon. This was on steeply rising ground, with the river Norken running at its foot. Beyond this were two other eminences, on each of which stood a windmill. That on the west was called the windmill of Oycke, and that on the adjoining hill the windmill of Royegham, the latter flanking the main position. Oudenarde being found to be strongly garrisoned, it was decided, in spite of the opposition of Burgundy, to cross the Scheldt at Gavre, and then to give battle to the allies between that river and the Dender. Marlborough had, however, been joined by Prince Eugene, who had, like Berwick, hurried on in advance of his army, and the two great generals decided, instead of attacking the French by the road from Brussels, to sweep round across the Scheldt at Oudenarde, and by other bridges across the river, and so to place themselves between Vendome and France. A portion of the French army was already in movement, when the news came that the allies were fast coming up. Early the next morning their advance guard, composed of twelve battalions of infantry and the whole of the cavalry, reached the Scheldt; and, having thrown bridges over the river, crossed, and soon came in contact with the French advance guard, under Biron. There was some severe fighting, in which neither party gained any great advantage, the French maintaining possession of the village of Eynes. While this conflict was going on, Marlborough and Eugene, with the main body, had reached the river, and were engaged in crossing it; and Vendome determined to attack them while carrying out the operation. He was, as usual, opposed by Burgundy, who wished to continue the march to Ghent. Marshal Vendome pointed out that, in a country so broken and interspersed with hedges, an army possessing the greatest strength--for the French numbered eighty-five thousand, while Marlborough had but eighty thousand under him--would lose the advantage of that superiority; and, upon Berwick strongly siding with the marshal, Burgundy was forced to give way. The discussion lasted some time, enabling the allies to pass bodies of troops across the river, where they were formed up at a village a few hundred yards north of Oudenarde; and immediately Marlborough felt strong enough to risk an attack, orders were sent to Cadogan, who commanded the advance guard, to drive the enemy out of Eynes. Four English battalions attacked the seven French battalions in the village, while the cavalry crossed higher up, and came down on the back of the village. Three of the French battalions were surrounded and made prisoners, while the other four were dispersed. It was now evident, even to Burgundy, that an action could not be avoided, but again an angry dispute took place. Vendome would have stood on the defensive, with the river Norken to be crossed before he could be attacked. He was, however, overruled by Burgundy, who had nominally chief command. Marlborough took advantage of the delay, and posted his troops in front of the castle of Bevere, and sent the twelve battalions at Eynes to reinforce his left, against which he saw the main attack of the French would be directed. He then lined all the hedges with infantry, and stationed twenty British battalions, under Argyle, in reserve. Crossing the Norken, the French fell upon the Dutch and Hanoverians, who constituted the left wing, and who, though fighting obstinately, were driven back. Marlborough moved from the centre with twenty battalions to reinforce them, and despatched Eugene to command on the right. A desperate fight now took place. On both flanks, the ground was broken by enclosures with deep wet ditches, bridges, woods, and small villages; and the cavalry were unable to act on such ground. The infantry on both sides fought with extreme resolution; every hedge, ditch, bridge, and house being defended to the last. Seldom, indeed, in modern warfare, has so obstinate and terrible a fight taken place. Frequently the combatants were mingled together, and fought with bayonets and the butt ends of their muskets. Gradually, however, the Dutch and the Hanoverian battalions won their way forward, and drove the French back to the village of Diepenbeck, where the latter successfully maintained themselves. Marlborough then ordered General Overkirk to move round and seize the hill at Oycke, which, although it flanked the enemy's position, was not held by them. This he did, with twenty Dutch and Danish battalions, who had only just crossed the river. He then pressed on and seized the mill of Royegham, thus cutting the communication between the French at Diepenbeck and the troops that still remained on the plateau beyond the Norken. Eugene then swung round his right, and, pressing forward, surrounded the French on that side, so completely enveloping them that his men and those of Overkirk each believed the other to be French--for darkness had now fallen--and fought for some time before the mistake was discovered. As, in such a country, it was impossible to move troops in regular formation in the darkness, Marlborough gave orders for the troops to halt in the positions they held. Had the light lasted two hours longer, the whole of the French army would have been slain or captured; but, under cover of darkness, the greater portion made their way through the intervals of the allied troops. Many fled to Ghent, while thousands made for the French frontier. Vendome lost in killed and wounded six thousand men, and nine thousand prisoners, and his total loss exceeded twenty thousand; while the allies lost five thousand, of whom the great majority were Dutch, Danes, and Germans. The French troops on the plateau withdrew, under the direction of Vendome, in good order; and before morning a large number of fugitives had rallied. Marlborough sent forty squadrons of horse in pursuit of them, but the French showed so firm an attitude that the cavalry were unable to seriously interfere with their retreat. Berwick had remained, during the day, near the marshal; and had placed his aides-de-camp at his disposal, for the difficulty of the ground, and the distance from the plateau of the various points at which the troops were engaged, rendered communication much slower than it otherwise would have been, and Desmond and his companions were frequently sent off with orders. It was the first time Desmond had been under fire, and the effect of the roar of musketry, the whizzing of bullets, and the shouts of the combatants, gave him a much stronger feeling of discomfort than he had expected. The roar of cannon was not added to the other sounds, for the guns of the day were clumsy and difficult to move; and, owing to the rapid marches and countermarches of both armies, the greater portion of the artillery had been left behind, and only a few guns were on the field, and these, in so close and confined a country, were of little use. Desmond felt now that he would far rather be fighting in the thick of it, with O'Brien's regiment, than making his way alone along the lanes, impeded constantly by columns advancing to the front, while he was met by a stream of wounded men making their way to the rear. At first, all was exultation among the troops, for as the Hanoverians and Dutch were forced to give way before the assault of the main body of the French, shouts of victory rose; and it was confidently believed that they would, this day, avenge the two great victories Marlborough and Eugene had gained over them. Having delivered his orders to the officer in command, Desmond rode back. Vendome and Berwick had both dismounted, and were standing together, with a few of their staff, at the edge of the plateau, examining the field with their telescopes. "I have delivered your message, sir," he said, riding up and saluting. "The general bade me tell you all was going well. The enemy were falling back, and will soon be in full flight." "Very well, Mr. Kennedy. By this time, he will have found out that he was a little too sanguine." The fire had, indeed, for the past few minutes broken out with augmented fury. Marlborough had arrived at the threatened point, and had placed himself at the head of the Dutch and Hanoverians, and, animated by his presence, these had not only ceased to fall back, but were in turn advancing. "The battle is not won yet, Kennedy," O'Sullivan, who had returned a few minutes before from the front, said, as he joined him. "On our left we are being driven back, for a large force has reinforced the enemy there, and unless our main column defeats the allied left, and pushes them into Oudenarde, we shall have night coming on before we have finished; and, as our cavalry cannot act in these cramped fields, Marlborough will be able to draw off without any great loss." For an hour, there was no change. Then Berwick, looking round, beckoned to Desmond. "Mr. Kennedy," he said, "a strong force of the enemy moved, half an hour ago, towards their left. I have lost sight of them, owing to the high hedges and trees, but it does not seem to me that they can have joined in the battle. Our troops are strongly posted at Diepenbeck, and should be able to maintain themselves there against the whole allied army; but the enemy cannot see our dispositions, and would surely have pushed forward and made a desperate assault on the village, had they been joined by the strong force I saw moving in that direction. "It may be that this force has been held in reserve, in case our line should be reinforced, and again advance. Marlborough may be content to hold his own on his left, while Prince Eugene, who, we have heard, commands on their right, turns our flank on that side. "I wish you to ascertain, if possible, what this force is doing, and where it is posted. If you ride across to the mill, on the eminence behind Diepenbeck, you may be able to get sight of them; or, if the smoke renders it impossible to discover matters from that point, ride on to the farther hill, and, descending there on the enemy's left, you will be able to make your way close enough to ascertain what is going on. You are well mounted, and need not greatly fear capture, for they would hardly care to divert a party of cavalry in pursuit of a single officer. Still, it is as well not to push your horse too hard on your way out, for you may possibly need all his strength." A minute later, Desmond was cantering his horse down the declivity to the Norken. Crossing by the bridge near Mullen, he turned to the right and rode up the hill of Royegham. Here a strong brigade, composed of cavalry and infantry, under General Grimaldi, was stationed. Desmond rode up to him. "The Duke of Berwick has sent me to ascertain, sir, the position of a strong body of the enemy's troops, whom he observed marching from the river towards our right. May I ask if you have noticed them?" "We saw them move away, after crossing the river, but have not seen them since. I should fancy they are engaged in front of Diepenbeck; but the ground is so undulating, and the view so obscured by smoke, that we have not caught sight of them since they issued from Oudenarde--indeed, the hill behind Diepenbeck prevents our seeing down into the low land beyond." "I will ride on there, sir," Desmond said. "Certainly a better view can be obtained than from this side." A canter of a mile took him to the summit of the hill at whose foot Diepenbeck stood. He could see the masses of French troops, gathered in and in front of the village; but beyond that a veil of smoke covered the country, and entirely obscured the contending parties, whose position could only be guessed by the incessant rattle of their musketry fire. Turning again, he rode down the dip that separated the hill from that of Oycke. He had just gained the crest, when he saw a large force marching rapidly towards the mill. Seeing at once the serious nature of the movement, he turned and galloped, at full speed, to the point where the generals were still watching the progress of the fight. "I could learn nothing of the force you spoke of from General Grimaldi at Royegham, nor on the heights above Diepenbeck; but, riding towards Oycke, I saw them advancing at full speed towards the windmill, at which they had already almost arrived." An exclamation of anger broke from the duke. "This is what comes," he muttered, "of placing a fool in command of the army." Turning away, he at once communicated the news to Vendome, who stamped his foot furiously on the ground. "Just when victory was in our grasp," he said, and turned his glass towards Oycke, which was some four miles distant. "I can make them out now," he said. "There is a black mass issuing from the village of Oycke, and ascending the hill in the direction of Royegham. It is too late to reinforce Grimaldi there. They will be upon him before we can cross the Norken. But, at any rate, we must send a brigade down to Henhelm, where, with Grimaldi's men, they can try to keep open the road from Diepenbeck." Ten minutes later they could hear, by a sudden outburst of fire, that Grimaldi was engaged. The sun had already set, but Berwick was able to make out, with his glass, that the left was giving way before the attack of Eugene, and that the twenty battalions under Argyle, which had hitherto remained inactive, were advancing by the main road leading, through Mullen, to the plateau on which they stood. "The day is lost," Berwick said bitterly. "The troops at Diepenbeck are completely cut off. Darkness alone can save them from annihilation. And to think that, if it had not been for Burgundy, we could have maintained ourselves here against double the force of the allies! So long as the system of giving the command of armies to royal incapables continues, we cannot hope for success." Vendome lost no time in issuing orders. The troops still on the plateau were brought forward, whence their fire would command its approaches. Aides-de-camp were sent in all directions, to order the generals of divisions to draw off at once, and to make their way up to the plateau; and Berwick's four aides-de-camp were told to make their way, if possible, by different routes to Diepenbeck, and to give orders for the troops there to maintain themselves, at all costs, until darkness had completely fallen; and then to make their way as best they could to the plateau; if that was impossible, to march for either Ghent or Lille. "The service is a desperate one, gentlemen," Berwick said, as he turned to give the orders to his officers, "but it is necessary, for if the force remain there until morning, they are all irretrievably lost. It is getting dark already, and you may, therefore, hope to pass unnoticed between the intervals of the enemy. If you get there safely, do not try to return at once, but, like the rest, endeavour to make off during the night." Without waiting for orders, Mike followed his master. Going down, they met the remnants of Biron's division flying in disorder. They separated at the bridge of Mullen, and, with a word of adieu to his comrades, Desmond turned to the right, and rode for Groenvelde. Suddenly, a volley of musketry was fired from the hill to the right. Desmond staggered for a moment in the saddle, and the bridle fell from his left hand. Mike was by his side in a moment. "Where are you hurt, master?" "In the left wrist, I fancy. By the way the hand hangs down, it must have smashed both bones. However, there is no time to wait, now. It is a matter of life and death to get to Diepenbeck." "One moment, your honour. Let me put your hand into the breast of your coatee; then, if you keep your elbow tight against your body, it will keep it steady." Although Mike carried out his suggestion as gently as he could, Desmond almost fainted with pain. "Take a drop of brandy from your flask, master. It won't take half a minute, and then we will be off." They continued their journey. The rattle of musketry, ahead of them, showed that the combat had already commenced close by; between either the advancing troops of Argyle, or those who had crossed the hill of Royegham; and Grimaldi's brigade, which was probably endeavouring to hold them in check, until the troops at Diepenbeck came back. It was already too dark to distinguish the uniforms, except at a distance of a few yards. Dashing on, he saw a dark mass ahead--three officers rode out. "Who are you, sir?" they shouted. "I am carrying a report from the general," he replied, in English, and without drawing rein dashed on, passing within twenty yards of the column, and reached Diepenbeck without further interruption. In the centre of the village, the French general was sitting on his horse, surrounded by his staff. The combat beyond raged as furiously as before. Desmond rode up, and saluted. "I am the bearer of orders from Marshal Vendome, sir," he said. "He bid me tell you that a large force of the enemy has crossed the hills of Oycke and Royegham, and is already in your rear, the enemy's right overlapping your left; while the whole British reserve is pressing forward, and will ere long effect a junction with both these forces. Your retreat, therefore, is entirely cut off. The orders are that you shall maintain yourself here as long as possible, as in the darkness and confusion, it is unlikely that the allies can attack you from the rear before morning. "The marshal himself holds the plateau, and will continue to do so. You are to make your way tonight, if possible, in battalions and in good order, through the intervals between the various divisions of the enemy; or, if that is not possible, singly. All are to endeavour to join him on the plateau. Those who cannot do this are to make for Ghent or Lille." "Your order scarcely comes as a surprise, sir," the general said bitterly. "We have heard firing in our rear for some time, and we were afraid that things had gone badly with us, after all." He at once gave orders that the troops behind the village were to take up a position to resist any attack made in that direction. Desmond dismounted, as did Mike, and the latter took the two horses, fastened them to a tree, and then, with Desmond's scarf, bound his arm firmly against his side. "We have made a mess of it entirely, your honour," he said, "and have got a terrible bating. Sure we were lucky in getting here. Faith, I thought we were caught when you were hailed." "It was a narrow escape, Mike; and if they had waited till I had got a little nearer, and had seen my uniform, I must have surrendered." "It seems to me that we are like rats in a trap, Mr. Kennedy." "Something like it, Mike; but it is hard if we can't get through them, in the dark." "That we will do, sure enough," Mike said confidently; "but which way should we go?" "That I can't tell you. You see, they are in strength in front, Marlborough and Eugene are on the left and partly behind us, and the troops you saw come across the hills are somewhere in the rear. If it were daylight, not a man of us would escape; but as it is, it will be hard if we cannot make our way through. "What I am thinking about chiefly, at present, is the safety of O'Sullivan, O'Neil, and d'Eyncourt. They ought to have been here as soon as we were. They may either have lost their way in the darkness, or fallen into the hands of the enemy. However, I shall not give them up for another half hour." The firing was now abating, and presently died away completely; except for a few scattered shots, showing that the allies had been halted where they stood, and were no longer pressing forward. Another hour passed, and Desmond's comrades were still absent. In the meantime, the general had called together the colonels of the several regiments, had explained the situation to them, and repeated Vendome's orders. The news came like a thunderbolt upon them, for the din of firing round the village had completely deadened all distant sound, and they were wholly unaware of what was passing in other parts of the field. "I must leave the matter to your individual discretion," the general said. "Those of you who think your men can be relied on, can try to escape and join the marshal in a body. Those who have not that confidence in their regiments--and indeed some of these have been almost annihilated--had best tell them to scatter. Those who remain here will assuredly be made prisoners in the morning. "It is possible that that may be the better plan, for it is better to surrender than to be cut to pieces. I therefore leave the matter entirely in your hands. I myself shall remain here. We have done all that men can do in the way of fighting, and, as I was told to hold this place till the last, I shall remain at my post." Desmond was present when this conversation took place. "We will wait another hour, Mike," he said, as he rejoined his follower. "We may be sure that the greater part of the enemy's troops will be asleep by that time. They must have made a tremendous march, for the news last night was that they were twenty miles away; and they have been fighting twelve hours. After such work as that, the men will drop down to sleep as soon as they have halted." "Shall we go on horse or on foot, your honour?" "I think the best plan will be to lead our horses, Mike, across this country. It would seem natural to do so, and once through them, we could then gallop round and join the troops on the plateau." "I should say, sir, that if I were to steal out to where they have been fighting for the last six hours, I might get a couple of uniforms to put over our own. They will be lying thick enough there, poor chaps. If we had them on, we might pass through any troops we might meet, as we both speak English." "That is a good idea, Mike, if you can carry it out." "Sure I can do that, and without difficulty, your honour. I expect the enemy have drawn back a little, so as to be in some sort of order if we were to fall upon them in the night; and I know that all our men have been recalled. I will fasten the horses to this tree, and perhaps your honour will keep an eye on them." "I will stay with them, Mike." The soldier at once made off. The village was now crowded with troops. All order was at an end, and the regiments were considerably mixed up. The officers went among them, saying that an attempt was going to be made to pass through the enemy, and join the force on the plateau. They pointed out that there was at least as much hope in being able to do so as in making off singly. Many of the soldiers, not having themselves suffered defeat, responded to the call; and several bodies, four or five hundred strong, marched out into the darkness. The majority, however, decided to shift for themselves, and stole away in threes and fours. Of those that remained, some broke into the village wine and beer shops and drank to stupefaction; while others, exhausted by the efforts of the day, threw themselves down and slept. Mike was away half an hour. "I have got an officer's cloak for you, and a helmet with feathers. I think he must have been a staff officer, who was killed while delivering his orders. I have got a soldier's overcoat and shako for myself." "Capital, Mike! Now I think that we can venture, and we will go the shortest way. We might very well lose ourselves among these hills, if we were to try to make a circuit." Having put the Dutch uniforms over their own, they set out, taking the way to the left until they came to the main road by which the British reserve had advanced. Then they mounted their horses. "It is no use trying to make our way through the broken ground, Mike. There is another road that goes through Huerne. We will strike that, and must so get round on the right of the enemy. Even if we come upon them, we are not likely to excite suspicion, as we shall be on a road leading from Oudenarde. "I was noticing that road from the height. It runs into this again, near Mullen, and the enemy are not likely to have posted themselves so near to the river." They rode on through Huerne. The village was full of wounded. No one paid them any attention, and they again went on, until suddenly they were challenged with the usual "Who comes there?" "A staff officer, with despatches," Desmond replied. He heard the butt of the soldier's musket drop upon the ground, and rode forward. "Can you tell me, my man," he said as he reached the sentinel, "where the Duke of Marlborough is to be found?" "I don't know, sir," the man replied. "Only our regiment is here. I know there are a number of cavalry away there on the left, and I heard someone say that the duke himself was there. There is a crossroad, a hundred yards farther on, which will lead you to them." Thanking the man, Desmond rode on. A few bivouac fires had been lighted, and these were already beginning to burn low, the troops having dropped asleep almost as soon as they halted. "I hope we shall meet no more of them, Mike," Desmond said, as they went on at a brisk trot. "I sha'n't feel quite safe till we get to Mullen." They met, however, with no further interruption. As they crossed the bridge, they halted, took off the borrowed uniforms, threw away the headgear and put on their own hats, which they carried under their cloaks, and then rode on up the hill, after having first satisfied the officer commanding a strong guard placed at the bridge that they were friends. Another ten minutes, and they were upon the plateau. Desmond had no difficulty in finding out where the headquarters were established at Hayse, and, riding there, he at once went into the house occupied by Berwick, and reported his return. "I am glad to see you back again, Kennedy," the duke said, heartily. "It is something to have recovered one friend from the wreck. Now, what is your news?" Desmond related what had happened to him from the time he left, and said that a large proportion of the troops at Diepenbeck had already left, and, as he heard no outburst of firing, he hoped most of them had got safely away. "I see you are wounded." "I have had my wrist smashed with a musket ball, fired by a party on a hill to the right, belonging, I suppose, to the force that came up from Oycke." "You had a narrow escape of your life," Berwick said. "If you had been hit a little farther back, the ball would have gone through your body. Sit down at once. I will send for my surgeon." And he instantly gave orders for the surgeon of the staff to come to his tent, and then made Desmond, who was suffering terribly from the agony of the wound, drink a tumbler of wine. "I know you are all busy, doctor," the duke said, as the surgeon entered, "but you must do something for Mr. Kennedy, who is badly wounded in the arm." The surgeon examined the wound, and shook his head. "Both bones are fractured," he said, "and I am afraid that there is nothing for it but amputation." "Then leave it till tomorrow, doctor," Desmond said faintly. "There must be a number of poor fellows who want your attention much more than I do." "That would do, if I could make you a cradle, but we are badly off for all surgical appliances." "Could you cut one out of one of my jack boots?" "A capital idea, Mr. Kennedy. Nothing could be better. And I will put it in operation, at once, with some of my other patients." "Mr. Kennedy is full of expedients, doctor, and it seems to me that this may be really a valuable one. All the cavalry men have jack boots, and I will give you an order to requisition as many as may be required. The men can get new ones from the stores at Ghent." The surgeon at once cut off the foot of one of Desmond's boots, and then divided the leg longways. "There," he said, taking up one of the halves; "you could not wish for a better cradle." He took out some lint that he had brought with him, together with some flat splints, bound the hand in its proper position, and then laid the arm from the elbow to the fingers in the cradle, round which he tightly put a few bandages to keep it in position. "Now for your scarf," he said, and with this made a sling to support the arm. The whole operation did not take five minutes. "Now, Mr. Kennedy, you had best lie down and get what sleep you can. I will take the other half of your boot, and the other boot also. It will be no use without its fellow. It will make three wounded men comparatively comfortable, and I will send for some more from the troopers." "Yes, lie down at once, Kennedy," Berwick said. "We are going to march off at daybreak, and the marshal and I have arranged everything between ourselves. You had better try and eat something, if it is only a wing of that chicken and a few mouthfuls of meat. Your faintness must be due as much to hunger as to your wound, for you have been at work since early morning, and cannot have had time to eat anything." This was indeed the case, and Desmond managed to swallow a few mouthfuls, and then lay down upon the sofa, where, in spite of the pain of his wound, he presently dozed off, being utterly worn out with the work and excitement of the day. Before morning, some five thousand of the troops from Diepenbeck had marched into the camp, in good order and with their arms, and as soon as it was daylight the whole force started for Ghent. With deep regret, Desmond had learned from the marshal, before lying down, that none of his comrades had returned; and as they had not reached Diepenbeck, he felt sure that they were either killed or prisoners. "D'Eyncourt will, of course, be treated as a prisoner of war; but if the identity of O'Sullivan or O'Neil is proved with the officers of that name who escaped from Newgate, it is likely to go hard with him." After repulsing the cavalry sent in pursuit, the army marched away unmolested, being joined as they went by large numbers of fugitives, who had made their way through the allied lines in small parties. Marlborough's army remained on the ground they had won, collecting and caring for the wounded of both armies. Two days later, Berwick's corps joined Vendome, and that of Eugene marched into Marlborough's camp. In spite of the loss that he had suffered at Oudenarde, this reinforcement raised Vendome's army to over one hundred and ten thousand men, which was about the same force as Marlborough had under his command. After Eugene had joined him, standing as he did between Vendome's army and Paris, Marlborough proposed that the enemy's fortresses should be neglected, and that the army should march directly on Paris. The movement might have been attended with success, but was of so daring a description that even Eugene opposed it, while the commanders of the Dutch, Danes, and Prussians were unanimously against it; and he consequently decided to lay siege to Lille--a tremendous undertaking, for Lille was considered the strongest fortress in France, and Vendome, with over a hundred thousand men, was within a couple of days' march of it. His dispositions were made with extreme care, and a tremendous convoy of heavy artillery, ammunition, and provisions was brought up from Ostend, without the French being able to interfere with its progress. Marlborough, with his British contingent and the Hanoverians, was to cover the operations of the siege, which was to be undertaken by Prince Eugene with the rest of the allied army. Vendome marched at once with his army, and, making a circuit, placed himself between Lille and Paris, deserting his recent conquests in Ypres, Ghent, and Bruges, all of which fell into the hands of the allies.	{ "id": "18349" }
13	: Convalescent.	Desmond was not present with the French army, for many hours after their arrival at Ghent. He suffered intense pain on the ride thither, and was then taken to a hospital that had been hastily formed for the reception of wounded officers. Here the surgeons had agreed that there was nothing for it, but to amputate the arm halfway between the wrist and the elbow. The limb was already greatly swollen. "Under ordinary circumstances," the surgeon said, "we should wait until we had reduced the inflammation, but this might be a matter of a week or ten days, and there is no time to spare, as the army will probably march away in a few days, and travel would increase the inflammation to such an extent that your life might be sacrificed." "I would rather have it taken off at once, doctor," Desmond said. "The operation cannot hurt very much more than the arm is hurting already, and the sooner it is over, the better." Surgery was in its infancy at that time. Anesthetics were undreamt of; but the surgeons of the French army had large experience, and the operation was very skilfully performed, for the time. The stump was then seared with a hot iron. "You have stood it well," the surgeon said, for, except when the iron was applied to the wound, no groan had issued from Desmond's lips. "Now, your servant must keep these dressings continually soaked with water, and, in a few days, we may hope that you will be able to travel in a waggon without danger." When the army marched away a week later, Desmond was placed in a waggon, half filled with hay, with several other wounded officers. At Arras, where there was a large military hospital, he was kept for a few days, and then sent on to Amiens, only the most severe cases being retained at Arras, as another engagement might take place at any moment, and the resources of the town would be taxed to the utmost. He gained strength very slowly, and it was six weeks before the surgeons pronounced him to be sufficiently convalescent to be moved. "It would," they said, "be probably some months before he would be fit to return to active service." He was sitting, looking listlessly out of the window of the chamber that he and three other officers occupied, when Mike came in, followed, to Desmond's intense surprise, by Monsieur de la Vallee. "My dear Desmond," the latter exclaimed, hurrying forward and grasping his hand, "you must have thought that we had all forgotten you." "Indeed, I never thought anything of the kind, Philip. I did not suppose that you had ever heard of me, since we parted at Moulins." "News travels but slowly, but we did hear that fifteen subalterns of O'Brien's regiment were captured in the Salisbury. I wrote to a friend in Paris, and he told me that you were among the number, but that, on making enquiries, he found you had, in some manner or other, effected your escape, and that you and two other officers had had an audience with the king, and had then gone to the northern frontier on the staff of the Duke of Berwick. I wrote begging him to get, if possible, a sight of the despatches, and if your name appeared, to let us know. Ten days ago, I received a letter from him, to say that you had been wounded at Oudenarde. The Duke of Berwick had, in his private despatch to the king, mentioned your name with very high praise, saying that it was due to you, alone, that so many of the troops hemmed in at some village or other--I forget its name--managed to make their escape during the night, for, although he sent off four aides-de-camp with orders, you alone managed to get through the enemy, though wounded by a bullet which had caused you the loss of your hand. He said he had written to the chief surgeon on Berwick's staff, who was a personal friend of his, to ascertain, if possible, where you were. Of course, I set out as soon as I received his letter." "What! Have you ridden all the way from the south of France to come to me, Philip?" "Of course I have, and should have ridden all across Europe, if it had been necessary. I went round by Pointdexter. The baron is laid up with an attack of gout, or he would have accompanied me. He sent all sorts of messages, and so did Anne, and the latter informed me that I need not show my face at the chateau again, until I came accompanied by you. When I reached Paris my friend had learned from the surgeon that you were at Amiens, and so, here I am. "I met your faithful Mike at the gate of the hospital. I was glad, indeed, to see that he had come out unharmed from that terrible fight. When I told him I had come to take you away, he almost cried with joy." "It will be the saving of him," he said. "He has been going down the hill for the last fortnight, and it is change and good nursing he wants." "He will get good nursing, I warrant," I said, "and the soft air of the south will soon set him up." "It is wonderfully kind of you, Philip; but I am sure I am not strong enough to ride." "No one is thinking of your riding, at present, Desmond. I have brought down a horse litter with me, and four of my men, with the quietest horses on the estate, and all you have to do is to lie down in it, and talk with me whenever you are disposed. You have a whole batch of adventures to tell me." "I feel better already, Philip. I own that I have been downhearted of late, for it seemed to me that I should be an invalid for months, and be living in Paris without a friend except Mike, for all the regiments of the Brigade are either with Vendome or in Spain. The sight of your face, and the thought of your kindness, so cheers me that I feel capable of anything." "Well, we will start tomorrow morning, Desmond. I shall go at once and see the director of the hospital, and get an order for your discharge." The next morning they set out. Desmond had to be assisted downstairs. There he was laid on a litter, packed with soft rugs. This was raised and placed between two horses, ridden by two of de la Vallee's men. De la Vallee himself took his place by the side of the litter, Mike rode on ahead leading Desmond's charger, and the other two servants fell to the rear, in readiness to change with those bearing the litter, when half the day's journey was done. Seeing that the exertion of being moved had exhausted his friend, de la Vallee rode for some time in silence. Then, when Desmond opened his eyes and smiled at him, he said: "I hope you are feeling comfortable?" "Perfectly. I hardly feel any motion." Every care had been taken to prevent jolting. The poles of the litter were unusually long, thus adding to their elasticity. The ends passed through leathern loops suspended from the saddle; and were, at this point, covered with a thick wrapping of flannel bandages, which aided in minimizing the effect of any jar. The first day's journey was performed at a walking pace, and they reached Beauvais, twenty-five miles being accomplished. The fresh air and the slight easy motion were beneficial, and in the afternoon, Desmond was able to talk cheerfully with his friend. There was, however, no continued conversation, Philip saying he would ask no questions about Desmond's doings until he was stronger. His story had better be told while sitting quietly in a room, where it would not be necessary, as it was on the road, for the voice to be raised. In the evening, however, after partaking of supper, Desmond, without being asked, related the incidents, so far as he knew them, of the battle of Oudenarde, and of the manner in which he received his wound. "The whole disaster was due entirely to the Duke of Burgundy, or rather to the king, who placed him in command over two generals of the highest skill and reputation. If he had wanted to accompany the army, Burgundy should have done so just as our King James did, merely as a volunteer. "I am told that the king showed great courage in the battle. For my part, I think his presence was altogether a mistake. He claims that the English are his subjects, and yet he takes part with a foreign army in battle against them. His being present will certainly not add to his popularity in England." "I agree with you," de la Vallee said. "It would have been much wiser for him to have abstained, altogether, from interference in the matter. It was, of course, a different thing when he attempted to land in Scotland. Then he would have been leading the loyal portion of his subjects, against those whom he considers rebels against his authority. That was quite a different thing from acting, without cause or reason, as a volunteer in the French army, against those whom he regards as his countrymen and subjects. "I am afraid, Desmond, that, though it may shock you to think so, these Stuart princes of yours are not wise men. Legitimate monarchs of England though they may be, they do not possess the qualities that endear kings to their people. From what I have heard, James was a heavy pedant, a rank coward, essentially not a man to be popular among a spirited people. Charles had a noble presence and many fine qualities. But, although his ideas of kingly power would have suited us well enough in France, his arbitrary measures alienated a large proportion of his people, and brought ruin upon him. "Your second Charles, in spite of his numerous indiscretions, was not unpopular, because the people were wearied of the stern repression of Puritan rule, and were therefore disposed to look leniently upon his frailties, while they appreciated his good temper and wit. His fatal mistake was allying himself so closely with us--a grievous mistake, indeed, when we remember that for centuries the two nations had been bitterly opposed to each other. As for his brother, he forfeited his throne by his leanings towards the Catholic Church, in whose communion he died. Decidedly, the Stuart kings were not a success. "As to James the Third, as you call him, I know nothing beyond the fact that he is a protege of the king of France, and has now fought against his own people--a blunder, as it seems to me, of the worst kind, and one which is certain to alienate many of his supporters on the other side of the water. Were he to mount the throne, it would be partly due to the aid of French troops and French money--men and money, mind you, of a power at war with England! He would therefore, necessarily, like Charles the Second, be regarded as a protege of France. He would be bound in gratitude to Louis, and the position of England would be altogether changed. She would become the ally of Spain and France, her ancient enemies; and opponent of her present allies, Holland, Austria, Protestant Germany, and Denmark." Desmond was silent. He could not but agree with what his friend said, and had himself considered that it was a most unwise step for James to appear in the field, fighting against his countrymen. "I don't think I am strong enough to argue, Philip," he said with a smile, after a long pause, "and I don't mean to give you a victory, when I am fighting under disadvantages. The Stuarts certainly never did any special benefit to Ireland, and assuredly brought ruin and misery upon us; and at the present moment, I don't seem able to explain why we should be so devoted to the cause of these Scottish Stuarts, rather than to that of Anne, who is, after all, of the same family and race. However, we will fight it out when my brain is not so dull as it is at present." They slept the next night at Pontoise, having made a somewhat short journey, though Desmond protested that he felt quite equal to going on to Paris. "You are a good deal better today, Desmond, but there is no hurry, and we will take matters quietly. If you continue to make improvement we shall be able, in another day or two, to travel faster; and I hope that, before we get to the end of our journey, you will be strong enough to sit your horse for a few miles each day." They made no stay in Paris, but proceeded on their way, the morning after their arrival. Melun and Montargis were their next halting places. Desmond was gaining strength rapidly. His good spirits were returning, and at their evening halt, he had been able to recite the history of his escape from England. His wound had a less angry appearance, and on the day of their leaving Montargis the horses, at his request, occasionally broke into a trot for a mile or two. "You are looking paler. I think the motion is too much for you," Philip said after one of these occasions, when they again settled down to a walking pace. "I feel a bit tired, Philip, but one must make a beginning, and I shall never get strong unless I begin to use my muscles. At present, I acknowledge I feel as if I had been beaten all over with sticks, but I have no doubt that I shall shake this off, after a bit." This was indeed the case, and on the last three days of their journey to Pointdexter, he sat his horse for two or three hours. Philip had, on the last day, sent on one of his men to inform the baron that he would arrive that evening with Desmond, and as they were seen approaching, the baron and his daughter came out from the chateau, and welcomed them as they alighted. "Do not upset the young fellow by appearing shocked at his appearance," the former had said to Anne. "It was certainly a blow, this morning, to hear that he had lost his left hand, and that the greater portion of the journey had had to be performed in a litter, so you must expect to find him greatly pulled down. But see, they are breaking into a trot, so he has evidently gained strength on the way." In spite of the warning, the girl's eyes filled with tears as she saw Desmond's thin face and wasted figure, and his left arm in a sling. "Welcome to Pointdexter, Monsieur Kennedy! Many have entered here, since the old chateau was built, but none who have rendered such vital service to our race. Do not try to speak. I see that you are shaken with your journey. We will soon put that all right." "It has been a rather longer journey than we have previously made," Desmond said, after dismounting and shaking hands with the baron and his daughter, "and we rode somewhat faster than usual, as we were both of us anxious to be here. It was good, indeed, of Philip to make such a journey to find and bring me to you." "If he had not done so, assuredly we should. My foot was so bad, with this villainous gout, that I could not put it in a stirrup, but we should have had out the family coach. I had half a mind to do so as it was, and Anne was most anxious to try her powers of nursing, but Philip overruled us, and said that he would be with you a week earlier than we could reach you in the coach, and that, moreover, he was sure the journey in an open horse litter would be far better for you than being jolted in a close carriage. So, as usual, he had his own way; though I must say that, for once, Anne rebelled strongly against his authority." "You are all very good, Baron," Desmond said; "but, indeed, I think that Philip was right. I can assure you that the journey has done me an immense deal of good, and he will tell you that I am very different, now, from what I was when he found me at Amiens, for I had begun to think that I should never get away alive." "Do not let us stay talking here," the baron said. "Anne has had some soup prepared for you, under her own eyes; and that, and a glass or two of good Burgundy, will do wonders for you." Desmond, indeed, was greatly revived, and was able to join in a cheerful conversation with his hosts. "We are both dying to hear your adventures," the baron said, "and how you managed to escape from that jail in England, as you did, and also how it was that we met with that dreadful disaster at Oudenarde. It really seems that those terrible fellows, Marlborough and Prince Eugene, are invincible." "They are good generals, Baron. Beyond troubles with the commanders of the forces of their allies, they are able to carry out their own plans. The Dukes of Vendome and Berwick are also able commanders, but they were hampered by the presence of the Duke of Burgundy, who, on several occasions, overruled their opinions and ruined their plans. It is to him, alone, that the defeat at Oudenarde is due. The French soldiers fought as well as ever, and it was the position in which they were placed, and not the superior fighting powers of the enemy, that caused their defeat." "But how is it," the baron asked, "that with, as I hear, one hundred and ten thousand men, Vendome does not raise the siege of Lille? It seems incredible that, with so great a force, he should remain inactive while the enemy are carrying out their works for the siege." "That I cannot tell you, sir. We heard all sorts of rumours at Amiens, but it seems that Marlborough had taken up a strong position, and entrenched himself there with seventy thousand men, while Eugene is conducting the siege operations." "I don't understand it," the baron said, irritably. "There must be more ways of marching to Lille than one. If one road is barred, why not advance by another? The Duke of Burgundy is not with the army now, so the blame cannot be put on him." "No, sir; but Berwick's army is still, as I hear, under his independent command, and the duke, excellent soldier as he is, is not one to be easily led. If his opinion differs from that of Vendome, he would assuredly maintain it; and as his manner is not conciliatory, and his opinions are very strongly expressed, it may well be that there are, as was rumoured at Amiens, constant dissensions between him and Vendome." "Well, it seems to me very strange, Monsieur Kennedy, after having during the last reign defeated the best infantry of Spain, humbled Austria, subdued Bavaria, crushed the enemy in Italy, and shown ourselves to be the best soldiers in Europe; that we should now suffer defeat after defeat, by an army containing men of half a score of nationalities, though led by the greatest general that England has ever produced." "And, Baron, with English troops under him who have, for hundreds of years, shown themselves invincible!" "Yes, yes," the baron said, hastily. "We know all about Crecy, Poitiers, and Agincourt; and how well they fought in Holland; but I thought, Kennedy, that you were the enemy of the English, and were here with your brave countrymen to fight against them." "Not in my case, assuredly, Baron. I came over here because there is no opening for Irish gentlemen at home, and because only by the aid of France could our lawful king be placed on the throne. It is true that a section of the English people, under Oliver Cromwell, not only conquered us, but divided a great portion of our land among themselves; and, although we were again defeated by a usurping Dutch king, with the Dutch troops under his command, that is no reason why I should feel any animosity to the people at large, whose qualities I admire, and the majority of whom are, in their hearts, attached to the cause of the Stuarts, and hate those who are keeping the king from his throne. I own that I would rather that it had fallen to my lot to fight for France against Spaniards, Germans, and Italians, than against the English." "Did you lose many friends at Oudenarde, Monsieur Kennedy?" Anne asked. "I lost my two greatest friends," Desmond said. "At least, I fear that both are dead. They were the two who escaped with me from the English prison. They, with Monsieur d'Eyncourt, another of Berwick's aides-de-camp, started with me to carry orders to the troops, who were all but surrounded by the enemy. We went by different roads, to increase the chances of one of us getting there. "I succeeded with but this comparatively trifling wound," and he pointed to his empty sleeve, "but none of the other three got through, nor did their names appear when the lists were exchanged of the prisoners captured. Therefore, I have no doubt that all fell in the performance of their duty. We had been great friends, ever since I came out, and their loss has greatly affected me." "You are young, and will find fresh friends," the baron said, briskly. "Do not let us dwell on the past. You have now to apply all your energy to getting strong, and if you show as much vigour in that, as in other matters, I hope that in a month's time you will be well on the road towards complete recovery." "I mean to try hard, Baron," Desmond said, with a smile. "If I continue to gain strength as quickly as I have done during the journey, I shall certainly insist, before long, on being considered convalescent." Day by day, indeed, his strength increased. At first he wandered about in the park, accompanied by Philip and Anne, for the baron, although somewhat recovered from his attack of gout, still walked with difficulty. In a week, he again took to horse exercise, and was ere long able to join in hunting and hawking parties. The house was gay, for the baron, as soon as Desmond was able to take his share in conversation, invited many of the neighbouring gentry to the chateau, and introduced him to them as the man who had done so much for his daughter and himself. Several entertainments were given, at which the chateau was thrown open to all comers, in honour partly of Desmond and partly of the approaching marriage of the baron's daughter to Monsieur de la Vallee. This had been arranged to take place in September. Before that time arrived, Desmond had completely recovered his strength, and being now fit for service, was anxious to join. But his friends would not hear of his departure until after the marriage; and as news came that Lille had been captured by the allies, and it was certain that both armies would soon go into winter quarters, and would fight no more that year, he allowed himself to be persuaded to stay. The siege had been one of the most terrible in history. The place was nobly defended, and its conquest cost the allies dearly, twelve thousand being killed and wounded, and over seven thousand succumbing to diseases; while of the garrison, nearly seventeen thousand strong, but four thousand five hundred remained alive at the time it capitulated. Its fall caused general consternation throughout France, for it opened the road to Paris, and during the winter Louis made strenuous efforts to obtain peace; but the terms demanded by the allies were so onerous that the negotiations were broken off. In spite of the general distress throughout the country, the wedding was a gay one. Desmond had written to the Duke of Berwick, who was now in Paris, saying that he was fit for duty, and would report himself at the end of the month; and, on the day before he was about to leave Pointdexter, he received a reply from him. It ran as follows: Dear Monsieur Kennedy: I am heartily glad to hear of your restoration to health. I mentioned you to His Majesty today, who was pleased to speak very highly of you. The campaign is virtually at an end, for the present year. His Majesty has informed me that various changes will be made in the spring. Marshal de Villars is to replace the Duke of Vendome in the command of the northern army. The latter has been unfortunate, and misfortune on the part of a soldier is regarded as next door to a crime. Certainly the defeat at Oudenarde was not his fault, but had he taken my advice, Lille might have been saved. Doubtless he was as much dissatisfied with me as I was with him, and perhaps with reason; for, as you know, I am not accustomed to mince my phrases. However, as His Majesty was pleased to say, it is evident that having two generals acting together, each with an independent command, is a mistake, and one that should not be again committed. Therefore, next spring I am to take the command of an army in Dauphiny, and to check the Austrians and Italians. He said, "If you can spare him, Duke, I should be glad if you would let me have this young Irishman for a time. I shall promote him to the rank of captain, for the great service he rendered in carrying, as you say, at grievous risk and with the loss of his hand, the order to the troops at Diepenbeck to scatter during the night, thus saving me at least ten thousand of my soldiers. I shall also settle upon him a pension of fifty louis a year, for the loss of his hand. I will send him to Spain, having had several complaints from the Duke of Orleans" (who, as you know, is now in command there) "of the incompetence of many of his staff". I said that, although I had found you a most zealous and useful officer, and had a warm regard for you, I would of course accede to His Majesty's wishes in the matter. Enclosed in this letter is the order for you to join the Duke of Orleans, and a private letter from myself to the duke, giving a sketch of your services and exploits, which will doubtless give you, at once, a place in his favour. I do not think that this war will last very much longer. France is well-nigh ruined by the sacrifices she has made, and the drain upon the allies must be almost as great. Therefore, I trust that another campaign will bring it to an end. If not, you may be assured that when the duke no longer requires your services--and it is probable that, after a year's campaigning, he will be heartily tired with the difficulties that he, as I did, will meet with from the procrastination and general stupidity of the Spanish--you will be free to return to me, and I shall be glad to number you again among the members of my staff. Desmond was sorry to leave the service of the duke, but consoled himself with the hope that it would be only temporary; and the prospect of a year's campaigning, in a new country, was by no means displeasing to him. Therefore, after writing a suitable letter to the duke, he took leave of the Baron Pointdexter, with many thanks for his kindness, and, attended by Mike, started for Spain. "It's glad I am to be on the move again, Captain Kennedy," the soldier said, as they rode away. "Sure, your honour, idleness is not good for a man, especially when he has lashings of the best of food and drink. When I came to buckle on my sword belt, this morning, I found it would not meet within three inches, and the coatee is so tight that I feel as if I was suffocated." "You will soon work it down again, Mike. From what I hear of Spain, there is no fear of your getting too much food there. Rough work and small rations are, I hear, the rule." "I am ready for a good spell then, your honour. I hardly know myself now, for I am flabby and short of wind. Still, I am sorry to leave the chateau, for I have had the best time I ever had, in my life. Everyone was mighty kind, and seemed to think that I had done great things in helping to rescue Miss Anne, whereas I did nothing at all, except to follow you."	{ "id": "18349" }
14	: A Mission.	On arriving at Madrid in the first week in December, 1708, Desmond, after putting up at an hotel, and changing the uniform in which he travelled for his dress suit, proceeded to the headquarters of the Duke of Orleans, and sent in his name, together with Berwick's letter of introduction. In a few minutes he was shown into his room. The duke looked at him in some surprise. "Are you Captain Kennedy?" "I am, Your Royal Highness." "The Duke of Berwick has very strongly recommended you to me, saying that you had performed excellent service under him, and that he parted with you, with regret, at the express wish of His Majesty. He speaks of you as a young officer, but I was hardly prepared to see one so youthful. He says that you are devoted to your work, active and intelligent as well as brave; and as such your arrival is very welcome to me, for although excellent in battle, I own that my officers are less devoted to the hard work and detail that are as necessary as bravery on a general's staff. "By the way, I seem to have heard your name before. Let me see, it was in connection, was it not, with that affair of the Marquis de Tulle and Baron de Pointdexter's daughter?" "I certainly had the good fortune to take part in that affair, sir." "The king himself was pleased to tell me the details of that adventure, and to speak very highly of your courage and energy in carrying it out. And so, you are really the hero of that affair? He said that you were a young ensign in O'Brien's Irish regiment. You have risen rapidly, sir, for it is but eighteen months since it took place." "His Majesty graciously promoted me to the rank of lieutenant when I was appointed by the Duke of Berwick to his staff. I obtained my next step after the battle of Oudenarde, for carrying a despatch to the force cut off in the village of Diepenbeck, in which service I received a wound which resulted in the loss of my left hand. I was several weeks in hospital, and then obtained sick leave and went down for two months to Baron de Pointdexter, which visit resulted in my complete restoration to health. At the end of that time the Duke of Berwick, who had also returned from the army, was good enough to recommend me to His Majesty, and he thereupon promoted me and appointed me to join your staff." "If Marshal Berwick spoke approvingly of your conduct, Captain Kennedy, it is in itself a sufficient recommendation, for the duke is not easily satisfied. I am sure that I shall find you a valuable acquisition to my staff." The duke invited Desmond to dine with him that evening, and presented him to several of his staff who were among the company. These were, for the most part, personal friends and associates of the duke; gallant gentlemen, but wholly ignorant of war, and adverse to hard work, and it was not long before Desmond found that his services were called into requisition whenever it was necessary that a despatch should be carried to a distance. He was by no means sorry that this should be the case, for he soon tired of the stiffness and ceremony of the Spanish Court, and of the conversation (chiefly relating to ladies in Paris, whose very names were unknown to him) among the French officers, and it was a relief to him, indeed, when he could get away from attendance at headquarters, and enjoy an evening's talk with the officers of one or other of the four Irish regiments there. Many of these expeditions were attended by considerable danger, for the wars that had for some years devastated the country had resulted in general disorder. Armed bands, under the pretence of acting in the interest of one claimant or other to the throne, traversed the country, pillaging the villages, driving off flocks and herds to the mountains, and ruthlessly slaying any who ventured to offer the smallest opposition. Catalonia and Valencia had been the scene of the greater portion of the conflicts between the rival claimants. Throughout the rest of the country the population looked on apathetically at the struggle for mastery, caring but little which of the two foreign princes reigned over them; but, in the out-of-the-way districts, the wilder spirits left their homes in numbers, enticed by the prospects of plunder, under the leading of one or other of the partisan chiefs. Desmond had, from the moment of his arrival, spent the greater portion of his spare time in the study of Spanish, and, aided much by his knowledge of French, had made rapid progress, and in three months was able to converse fairly in it. It was, indeed, essential for his work, as without it he could not have made his way about, and safely delivered the orders of which he was the bearer. In the beginning of March, the duke sent for him. "I have been greatly pleased, Captain Kennedy, with the activity that you have displayed, and am going to make a further call upon you. This mission is of greater importance than any on which you have hitherto been engaged, and is one which, ordinarily, would be entrusted to an officer of higher rank; but I feel that I cannot do better than place it in your hands. From what we learn, I believe that it is the intention of the enemy to commence the campaign by crossing the frontier, near Badajos. By so doing, they can either follow the valley of the Guadiana to the sources of the river, and then come down into Valencia; or they could cross the sierras, come down into the valley of the Tagus, and march on Madrid. "In the first place, I wish a report as to the state of the fortifications of Badajos, and the efficiency of its garrison. I am, of course, acquainted with the official reports, sent by the Spanish commander of the town to his Government, but I have come to place no faith whatever in Spanish reports, which, for the most part, are a tissue of falsehoods. Your first duty, then, will be to give me as complete a report as possible of the state of things there; of your impressions of the capacity of the governor, as shown by his preparations; also of the morale of the troops. In the next place, I shall be glad of any information you can gather of the country beyond the frontier, and the state of the roads in all that neighbourhood. Here, again, the native reports are absolutely untrustworthy. The line of the enemy's advance would be either direct from Lisbon through Vicosa, or up the Tagus, which offers them great facilities for carriage, and down through Portalegre and Alvas. "During the past four years, there has been a good deal of fighting near the frontier, but the reports of the officers commanding the Spanish forces there are devoid of any practical information as to the roads on our side of the boundary. As it has been resolved to give the enemy battle, as soon as he crosses the frontier, it is most important that I should know the best lines by which troops can move, the state of the bridges, and the positions in which a battle on a large scale can best be fought. "You see, the mission is an important one, and I selected you for it as a proof of the confidence I feel in your ability. While carrying out this duty you shall have the temporary rank of major, as it will less ruffle the susceptibility of the Spaniards, if an officer of that rank be employed, than if a captain be sent to institute such enquiries. "You will, of course, be provided with a letter to the Governor of Badajos, couched in such terms that he will not consider your mission has any reference to himself, its object being to discover whether the magazines at Badajos are sufficiently well supplied to admit of their being, if necessary, drawn upon for the subsistence of the army; also, whether the garrison needs strengthening, in case the enemy should lay siege to the town before our army is at hand to give battle. Thus you will ostensibly confine your enquiries to the amount of provisions and ammunition, and consult the governor as to whether he considers the force at his disposal sufficient for the defence of the fortress against a vigorous attack. Fortunately, the Spanish methods are so slow that, before you get these particulars, you will have ample time to ascertain the points as to which I am chiefly concerned. "You will be furnished with a native guide, well acquainted with the passes of the sierras between the Tagus and the Guadiana. This part of your journey will not be unattended with danger, for the mountains swarm with bands of partisans; that is to say, bandits. I shall, however, give you an order, to the officer in command of the garrison at Toledo, to furnish you with an escort of ten troopers under an officer, to conduct you across the mountains. Four of these will accompany you to Badajos, and remain with you until you return to Toledo. Once in the valley of the Guadiana, you should have little chance of falling in with any bands of guerrillas, but an escort will add to your weight and importance in the eyes of the Spaniards." "I feel greatly honoured, Your Royal Highness, by your selecting me for the mission, and will carry it out to the best of my ability." "In an hour the papers will be ready for you, and you can start at daybreak tomorrow." "We are going on a long trip this time, Mike." "Back to France, your honour?" "No; we are going to the western frontier, by Badajos." "It makes no difference to me, sir, where we are going; but, in truth, I shall be glad to go anywhere, for I am mightily sick of this town, where the people have no great love for the French, and the best part of them seem to look down upon us soldiers, as if we were dirt under their feet. It is unsafe to go through the streets alone at night. A score of men have, since we came here, been found lying dead with a knife between their ribs." "Yes; the population here is very much divided, Mike, and even those who are favourable to Philip have no love for the foreign soldiers whose bayonets keep him on the throne. The duke has, many times, made formal complaints to the king and the city authorities. Philip has given strict orders for the arrest of bad characters, but the city civil authorities protest that they cannot lay hands upon them, and I believe have never taken the slightest trouble to do so." "How long shall we be away, your honour?" "I should say, a month. I am to have temporary rank as major, while engaged on this business. Anyone under that grade would receive but little courtesy from the Spaniards." "They are a mighty haughty lot," Mike grumbled. "I believe they think that, when the flood came, the Spanish grandees had an ark all to themselves, as they could not be expected to put up with a conveyance full of animals." Desmond laughed. "They haven't yet taken in the fact that Spain is no longer the great power she was when she was mistress of half of Europe. They were fine fighters then, Mike. For my part, I own that I cannot understand how it is they have fallen off in that respect; for certainly, without our troops, they would make but a poor stand against the Portuguese, backed up by the English and Dutch." "I have not seen them fighting yet, sir, but to my mind people so fond of using their knives are not likely to be of much account, when it comes to manly, straightforward fighting. "Well, your honour, if you are to go as a major, you will need some slight alterations in your uniform--more gold lace, and such like. So I had best see about it, at once." "I did not think of that, Mike; but you are right. I don't know whether, as I only hold temporary rank, I have a right to wear the uniform of a field officer; but, as the duke wishes me to be able to speak with some authority, there can be no harm in making the change, and the additions can easily be taken off, upon my return." "The duke ought to have given you the full rank, instead of the temporary one, sir. You have done more work, since you came here, than all the colonels and majors on his staff." "As far as work goes that may be so, Mike; but as the work consisted in carrying despatches about on horseback, it certainly affords no claim for promotion. And, indeed, I have no wish whatever for it. I am already the youngest captain in the service, except the young nobles who got their commissions as colonels, without even serving a day in inferior rank. I feel uncomfortable now when I go to our regiments, to see men who have been years in the service, and gone through many a desperate action, still lieutenants; while I, after two years' service, and still under nineteen, am a captain." "Yes, sir; but you know that you saved eight or ten thousand men to France at Oudenarde, and you lost a hand in the service of the country. That would count for a great deal." "It counts for something, no doubt, Mike, but many of these officers have risked their lives a score of times, and been wounded frequently, though they may not have lost a limb." "Ah well, sir!" Mike said, philosophically, "Luck is everything. And who would go soldiering, if it was not so? When going into battle, everyone knows that a lot of his comrades will be killed, but he trusts to his luck to get through safely. One man gets promoted and another doesn't, and he hopes that luck will come his way next time. I don't say that your honour's promotion has been luck, but you have had luck in being on the staff of the Duke of Berwick, and everyone knows that it is the staff officers who get the credit and promotion, while the men who do most of the fighting get passed over. There would be nothing to say against that if, as in your honour's case, a man was chosen for the staff because he had done something that showed that he was fit for it. But it isn't so here. If a man belongs to a good family, and has interest, he gets a good appointment; and it is mighty seldom that a man is taken from his regiment, and put on to the staff, because he has done something which showed he was a good soldier." "That is so, Mike. There is no denying it. And I believe it is one reason why so many disasters have befallen the French army. The generals are, as a rule, good, and the soldiers are excellent, but the staff are generally altogether incompetent, and seem to consider that the fact that they are nobles renders it unnecessary for them to give attention to details, or to be more than ornamental figures in the general's train. And when we see the authority of Vendome overruled by a young prince, who is grandson of the king, and nothing else, one must not be surprised that it is the same all through the army." That evening, Desmond received a packet containing his appointment as major while on special service, details of instructions as to the points to be attended to, and letters from the duke to the commandant of the garrison at Toledo, and from Philip to the Governor at Badajos. The next morning he started at daybreak, accompanied by Mike, and arrived that evening at Toledo. Here he presented his letter to the commandant. "Very well, sir," the officer said, when he had read it. "At what hour do you wish the escort and guide to be ready in the morning?" "I should like to start as early as possible, Colonel. I myself, being well mounted, might cross the sierra in a day; but the troopers' horses could not do that." "You would not gain anything if they could, Major Kennedy, for even if your horse could carry you over sixty or seventy miles of mountain roads in a day, you would certainly need a couple of days' rest before proceeding farther. If you get as far as Enmedio, which is in the heart of the sierra, you will have done well. You will then have another long day's ride down to Ciudad Real, from which place the officer with six of the troopers will return. The general says nothing about a noncommissioned officer, but I shall take it upon myself to send one to accompany you, with the four men. It will take a good deal of trouble off your hands." "I am much obliged to you, Colonel." "Now that we have finished business," the officer said, "we can talk of other things. You will, of course, put up here. I have two or three spare rooms, and the accommodation at the inns is wretched. I am always very glad when an officer rides through, because we hear little enough about what is passing, and as there is no sort of sociability among the Spaniards, life is very dull here, and one is very glad of the change." "Thank you, Colonel. I will gladly accept your invitation." The colonel rang a bell, and ordered a servitor, who answered, to show Major Kennedy's servant where to put up his master's horses and his own, to bring up the officer's valises, and to make the soldier comfortable below. "We shall sup in half an hour," he said to Desmond, when the man had left. "Two of my majors are going to share the meal." As soon as the valises were brought up, Desmond changed his uniform, got rid of the dust of the road, and was just ready when a servant knocked at the door and said that the supper was served. The meal was a pleasant one. The three French officers were anxious to hear the last news that had reached Madrid from France. The conversation did not flag for a moment during the meal. After this was over, and cigars were lighted--for the officers had all adopted the custom of the country--the colonel said courteously, "Would you mind telling us, Major Kennedy, how it is that you, who by your name are Irish, although you speak excellent French, have made your way so rapidly as to be already a major?" "Not at all, Colonel. I am, myself, as much surprised at it as you may be. But, really, my present rank is only temporary. I am going down to Badajos, on a special mission for the Duke of Orleans, and as he thought that I should be received better were I a field officer, instead of captain, he has given me the temporary rank of major while so employed. "I will briefly tell you how I obtained the other steps. The first was given me, by the king, on my appointment as aide-de-camp to the Duke of Berwick; His Majesty being good enough to take an interest in me, owing to a little adventure in which I had become involved. It concerned, I may say, the almost accidental rescue of a lady, who had been carried off by a nobleman of the court." "I remember now," the colonel said. "The lady was Mademoiselle de Pointdexter, and her abductor Vicomte de Tulle. It happened a month or so before our regiment left Paris for Spain, and was the chief topic of talk. I recall your name, now, in connection with the affair, and how warmly everyone spoke of your gallantry. Well, Major, how did you gain your next step?" "I had the good fortune to be the only one who survived, of four aides-de-camp who were sent off by the Duke of Berwick, at Oudenarde, to make their way through the allied lines with orders, to the division cut off from the rest of the army in the village of Diepenbeck, to disperse and make off across the country, as best they could. My comrades were all killed, but I was lucky enough to succeed in reaching the village uninjured, with the exception of a ball in the wrist, which caused the loss of my hand, and, I may say, almost of my life. It was because of the favourable report, which the duke was pleased to make of this service, that I received my rank as captain." "It was well earned, too, sir," the colonel said warmly. "I confess, I thought when you arrived that, although Irish by name, you must have had some very powerful influence at your back to have risen so early. Unhappily, promotion often bears no relation whatever to merit; and one sees young nobles, with no other recommendation than that of their birth, placed over the heads of officers of five-and-twenty years service. No one is jealous of a man who owes his rise to brilliant deeds of courage, or signal ability; but it is galling to see these young popinjays thrust forward, simply by family influence." In passing over the hills the next day, a large party of armed men made their appearance, suddenly, on a height above; but, seeing that an attack was likely to meet with a stout resistance, and as little booty would be obtainable, they did not interfere with their passage. Desmond congratulated himself on having an escort, for it would have gone hard with him, had he been accompanied only by Mike. On the fifth day after leaving Madrid he arrived at Badajos, with the sergeant, the four troopers, and Mike. After some formalities--for the town, being close to the frontier, was liable at any moment to be suddenly attacked--Desmond was conducted to the governor, a pompous Spanish officer. "Are you yourself Major Kennedy?" he asked, looking with some surprise at his young visitor. "My name is Kennedy, sir, and I have the honour of being major, and to serve on the staff of his grace, the Duke of Orleans. I am the bearer of a letter to you from His Majesty, King Philip." The Spaniard took the letter and read it, and Desmond could see, by the expression of his countenance, that he was by no means pleased. "I do not understand," he said coldly, "why an officer should have been specially despatched to obtain information which I have already duly furnished." "I understood from the Duke of Orleans, sir, that as news has been received that the enemy's plans were to cross the frontier near this town, it became a matter of special importance to see that it was sufficiently supplied with provisions, and munitions of war to stand a siege. It has been found more than once that, owing to the culpable neglect of subordinates, fortresses when besieged were by no means so well supplied with provisions, powder and shot, as had been supposed. Naturally, the governor of a fortress like this, with a considerable garrison, is too much occupied to personally superintend all these matters, and must leave them in the hands of his subordinates, who on their part commit them to those of sergeants and storekeepers; so that, while everything is reported to be ready, there are really deficiencies. A waste often takes place in the distribution of stores, and the matter was so important that the king requested the duke to send one of his staff to give you every assistance, and to receive your suggestions, which will be complied with to their full extent. As your last report was sent in some three months back, necessarily considerable changes have taken place, in that time." "Well, sir, I will obey His Majesty's orders, and give you every facility. My officers shall be instructed to open such magazines as you may select, and you will be then able personally to judge as to the quantity and condition of the stores. It will, of course, be impossible, unless with an immense expenditure of labour, to go through the whole of the magazines and to reckon up their contents; but as many as you wish shall be opened, and a party of soldiers told off to count the bales and cases." "A very few will suffice, sir. Of course, in the event of a battle being fought and a reverse occurring, the enemy might sit down before your town. You would be exposed to a long siege, for it might be some time before the army was again in a position to advance and fight another battle, or raise the siege. I have little doubt that everything will be found in excellent order, but should there be any deficiencies, the duke assured me that they would be at once made good." "If you will call tomorrow morning, sir," the governor said, "I will have some of the officials, in whose charge these matters are, placed at your disposal; but I am convinced that you will find that my reports on the stores and ammunition in hand are fully borne out." "The governor is, as I expected, a good deal put out, Mike," Desmond said as he rejoined his follower, who was waiting outside with the horses. "Now, let us find out the best hotel." "Didn't he ask you to stay with him, your honour?" Mike asked in surprise. "No. He is much too grand a man for that, and besides, he may have his wife and children with him; and however much a Spaniard may place his house and all within it at your service, it is very seldom that he invites a stranger to enter it. Moreover, glad as they may be to have French help in fighting their battles, they look with suspicion and dislike upon an individual Frenchman. "Besides, I fancy I shall find that these stores and magazines by no means tally with the report sent in by the governor. I heard the Duke of Berwick one day speaking about it, and he said there was corruption and dishonesty among their officials, from the highest to the lowest. It is probable that both the king and the Duke of Orleans have the same opinion, and that it was for this reason that they sent me here, in order to assure them that the fortress is as well supplied as has been stated. With the other papers, I have received a copy of the governor's report, although I did not think it necessary to tell him so." The next morning, on going to the governor's, Desmond found a number of officials assembled there. "These are the officers in charge of the stores and magazines," the governor said. "Colonel Mendez will accompany you, and will see that everything is done to facilitate your examination." The governor bowed formally. Desmond returned his salute, and then went down with the Spanish colonel, the other officials following. He saw that there was an expression of malicious pleasure in the colonel's face, and guessed that he was, by no means, sorry at the investigation that was to take place. "I think, sir," Desmond said, "that it will not be necessary for us to have all these officials going round with us. It will be impossible, in one day, to do more than examine one department. As ammunition is the most important of all stores, I would suggest that we take only those in charge of the war material." "Very good;" and, turning to those behind, he said: "For today, all those save the officers in charge of the magazines can be relieved from this duty. Their turn will come tomorrow, or next day." With the exception of five or six, all moved away. "We have three magazines in the town," the colonel went on, "so as to lessen the chance of our resources being destroyed by a single blow. There is the Central magazine, another that is known as the San Juan magazine, and the Western magazine." "We may as well visit the Central one first, as, no doubt, that is the most important one." As they went on, a party of twenty soldiers, who had been drawn up there, fell in behind, while Mike and two troopers of his escort also, at his orders, accompanied them. The magazine was formed in what had formerly been an old castle, but which was now used for another purpose, that of a store, its thick walls affording protection against any but very heavy missiles. On entering what had been the courtyard, Desmond saw that the greater portion of it was occupied by storehouses, massively built, and covered by some five or six feet of earth. "The first of these on the right contains musketry ammunition," Colonel Mendez said, "the next two contain cannonballs; powder is stored in the three houses at the farther end, and the three on the left side contain hand grenades, fuses for mines, signal rockets, and other miscellanies, such as brimstone." "We will examine number one first," Desmond said. "Which is the officer in charge?" One of the officials stepped forward, with a key. Desmond saw that his face was pale, and that he had a sullen look. "I will ask you, before we enter," he said, "how often do you take stock of your stores? I suppose when the governor sends in his half-yearly report?" "We do not do it that way at all," the man said. "I have a book. It was given to me by the officer I succeeded. Here it is. You will see that he handed over so many barrels of cartridges. On one side of the page I put down the number of barrels issued, and on the other the number I receive, and thus, at any time, without disturbing the contents of the store, I can state the number of barrels it contains." "Then how long have you held this position, sir?" "I have been in charge of this store, and of those used for powder in the cellars underneath the castle, for ten years." "The man whom you succeeded--how long had he been here?" "I believe he had been here for twenty years, or more." "And his system of keeping account was the same as yours?" "Precisely. He handed his books to me, and I have kept mine in the same way." "Then it is a fact, if I understand you rightly, that there has been no taking of stock for the past thirty years?" "It was not necessary," the officer said, in a surly tone. "There can be no mistake possible, considering the way in which we made our entries." They now entered the store. It was some sixty feet long and forty feet wide, with pillars of masonry along the centre to support the weight of the roof. It was lighted only by small loopholes in the thick walls. Four of the soldiers carried lanterns, and they were about to enter, when Desmond said: "There is no loose powder lying about, I suppose?" "None," the officer replied. "The barrels were all carefully examined before being taken into the store. They are, as you can see, strongly made. A leakage is out of the question, unless by any accident one should fall off the pile and burst; but such a thing has never happened, as far as I know." "I see, by your book, that there should be three thousand four hundred and eighty-two barrels, each containing five hundred cartridges. Certainly an ample supply, even for a prolonged siege." The barrels were piled in four tiers, one above another, forming a wall on each side of a central path, seven feet wide. "Give me your hand, Mike," Desmond said to his follower, and, standing upon it, he was able to scramble on to the top. "Twelve barrels deep," he said, as he descended. "Now, let us count the number in each line." The wall of barrels extended only some two-thirds of the length of the stores, and there were thirty barrels in each line. He made a rapid calculation. "That is three thousand two hundred, but I see that, in addition, there is a small pile on each side, beyond the others, which would about make up the correct total. Your record is strictly accurate." The official took up the lantern, as if the matter was now finished, but Desmond said: "No, sir. I have but begun; and my instructions were to see how much musket ammunition there was here, at present. I only know how many barrels there are. "And now, Colonel, I will ask you to call your men in, and set them to work. I wish two passages made through each of these piles of barrels. Three feet wide will be sufficient." "It would be very dangerous to move them," the official said hastily. "Not if it is carefully done. You tell me the barrels are strong, and that there is no leakage. Even if this should not be the case, there is little fear of the powder coming in contact with the candles in these lanterns; and besides, as the powder is in cartridges, it would not leak out even if one of the barrels were to burst." The soldiers had set to work at four points, chosen at hazard by Desmond. The barrels, as they were taken down, were ranged along on each side of the central path. When three lines had been cleared out, one of the soldiers gave an exclamation. "This is lighter than the one I carried out last!" he said. "Carry it out into the courtyard," Desmond said. "I should like to look at the contents." It was taken out to the courtyard, and one end carefully taken out. "You see, Colonel," Desmond said, as he looked at its contents, "you would have been reduced to great straits, long before you expected it." The colonel, who belonged to the artillery, looked into the barrel, which was full of earth. "Empty it out!" Desmond ordered. They did so. There was not a single cartridge in it. "This is scandalous!" the colonel exclaimed. "I did not expect that everything would be found right, but I had no idea of such villainy as this!" He turned to the men. "Arrest the commissary, at once," he said. But that official was nowhere to be found. He had slipped away, as soon as the men began to take down the barrels. Some soldiers were at once sent off in search of him. "We will continue the work," Desmond said, "and see how extensively this fraud has been carried on." The same result was met with in each of the openings. The first three lines consisted of barrels filled with cartridges; the seven lines behind contained nothing but earth. "You see, Colonel, instead of having over three thousand two hundred barrels of cartridges, you have less than a thousand. It is almost beyond belief! It is clear that this fellow, and probably the man who was in charge before him, have been in collusion with the contractors for these cartridges, and allowed them to send in seven barrels of earth for every three of cartridges. No doubt, they calculated that there was little chance of the fraud being detected--never, indeed, until there was a prolonged siege--for they would naturally serve out the barrels from the front row, as they were required, filling their places with fresh ones as supplies came in." The other storehouses were now examined. The number of cannonball alone tallied with the account. There were large deficiencies in the store of powder, and, indeed, among almost all the other munitions. "It is infinitely worse than I thought," the colonel said, "and I fear that the storekeepers are not the only people concerned in these frauds." "Now, Colonel, if you do not mind, I should like to go to one of the provision stores at once. Possibly, after what we have discovered, some pretext to stop further examination may be invented, if we wait till tomorrow." Great as had been the fraud in the magazines, that in the supplies of provisions was even greater. There was a deficiency of many hundreds of sacks of flour and beans. The meat stores were entirely empty, although they should have contained a large number of tierces of salted beef. This was a matter of minor importance, for in case of the approach of an enemy, the people of the country round would drive their cattle into the town, and, indeed, the allowance of meat to a Spanish soldier was so small that he could do well without it, existing entirely upon bread and fried beans. Of wine there was scarce half the amount indicated. A great number of the barrels had been filled only with water. It was late in the afternoon when the work ceased. "I should require a fortnight," Desmond said, "to get accurate figures. This, however, is comparatively unimportant. It is quite sufficient to know that in no case is there half the amount, either of ammunition or of provisions, given in the governor's last report, and that fraud on a large scale has been carried on; and I cannot but think that some men, at least, of higher rank than these storekeepers must have been privy to the affair." "There has certainly been something wrong in the supply of clothes, Major Kennedy. My men have had no new ones served out to them for the past year and a half, although I have made repeated applications during the past two months." "Yes; I noticed when I walked about in the town, yesterday, that many of the troops were almost in rags, and I have no doubt there has been fraud in the clothing department, as well as in all the others." "Well, sir, as a Spaniard I lament this terrible exposure. Blame, however, must not be laid entirely upon the military. The supply of provisions of all kinds, of cloth for clothing, and, indeed, of everything but guns and ammunition, is in the hands of the junta of the province, and of the civil authority here. Many of the members must be concerned in the matter, and I have no doubt that the officials here are heavily bribed to shut their eyes, and to arrange matters so that the frauds may escape attention. "I know that once, when I proposed to the governor to examine some of the barrels of cartridges as they came in, he answered me very sharply, and told me that my business was to work the guns, and not to meddle with the duties of the storekeeper." "Then do you think, Colonel? --" "I think nothing," the officer replied. "The governor is the governor, and it is not for me to discuss his conduct in any way, nor even to admit the possibility of his knowing of this affair." Only two or three of the storekeepers had been arrested. The rest had slunk away, as soon as they saw how matters were going.	{ "id": "18349" }
15	: Treachery.	At this moment an officer came down, and said that the governor wished to see Colonel Mendez and Major Kennedy, at once. As they entered the room, they saw the governor walking up and down in a state of great agitation. "I hear, Colonel Mendez," he said, stopping before that officer, "that you have, on your own authority, placed several of the commissariat storekeepers under arrest. What does this mean, sir?" "It means, sir, that Major Kennedy has discovered enormous deficiencies in the stores, and there can be little doubt that a number of persons must have been concerned in the matter, besides those in charge of the storehouses. Wholesale bribery must have been practised, by those who supplied the goods to those whose duty it was to receive them." "I shall order a commission of enquiry to sit at once, and beg that you, Colonel Mendez, will send me in a detailed report of the matter, which is, I need hardly say, one of extreme gravity." "I was right," Colonel Mendez said, as they left the governor's house. "I suspected that something was wrong, ever since he refused to allow me access to the magazines. I have no doubt that he has been acting in collusion with the contractors, though he may not have been aware of the extent of their rascality, for his subordinates may not only have accepted bribes from the contractors to carry out the frauds to which the governor may have consented, but may also have taken money from these to allow of still greater ones to be perpetrated." "What will he do, do you think, Colonel?" "He will endeavour, by every means in his power, to prevent any word of your discovery from leaking out. And, if I may advise you, I should say it would be well that you should take every precaution for your own safety. His position is a desperate one, for one cannot doubt that your report will be followed by his removal from his post, his dismissal from the army, and the confiscation of everything of which he is possessed. Therefore, it is almost a matter of life and death to him to prevent your report from being sent to headquarters, and to have you removed altogether. This done, the facts might not leak out. It would be supposed, at Madrid, that you had been stabbed by some street ruffian. And, although another officer might be sent down to report, it is by no means likely that he would go so rigorously into matters as you did, but would be contented merely to count barrels and bales, without troubling to investigate their contents." "But your evidence would be as strong against him as mine." "Yes; but that evidence is not yet given. He can, in the first place, and I have no doubt will, suppress my report to him. In the second place, he would consider it unlikely that I should venture to make the matter public, for he has powerful friends at court. He is connected with many of the leading families in the province, and might rely upon being able to hush the matter up, so long as it was known only to the heads of our army, who are not unaware that, although the pay of a commander of a fortress is not more than sufficient to maintain his position, they, like most other of our officials, generally retire with considerable fortunes. Therefore, any interference on my part would be more disastrous to my prospects than to his. "It is humiliating to say so, Major Kennedy, but both our civil and military systems are rotten to the core. There are, of course, honest men in both services, but as a rule corruption is almost universal. Still, although he cannot fear me as he must fear you, it is possible he may endeavour to make himself safe by removing me also from his path; and for a time I shall take good care to remain in my own barracks, as much as possible." "I will be careful also," Desmond said, "and I thank you much for the warning, which was needed, for it would never have struck me that he would even attempt to suppress the information that I have gained; but I see that it will be necessary to be very careful, especially in the manner of sending off my reports." "If I were in your place, I should mount my horse at once, and with the troopers of the escort ride straight for Madrid." "I cannot do that, Colonel, for the examination into the state of the stores here was only a part of my instructions, and I must, if possible, carry these out to the letter before leaving for Madrid. I might, however, send off my despatch by two of the troopers with me." "I think you may take my word for it, Major, that they would never reach their destination. Even while we are speaking, a messenger may be sent off either to one of these bands in the mountains, or to two or three of the contractors--who are, of course, as deeply involved as the governor, for there is no doubt of their guilt, while no proof can be given to his being a party to it--telling them that it is a matter of life and death to them to prevent you or your messengers from reaching Madrid." "The lookout is certainly far from comfortable," Desmond admitted, "and I must, tonight, think it over in every way, and decide upon what course I had best pursue." When he reached the hotel, he told Mike what Colonel Mendez had said. "By the powers, your honour, it is a nasty scrape that we seem to be in, almost as bad as when you were shut up in that prison in London." "Worse, Mike; for then we knew that we should be tried, but hoped that Louis would interfere in our favour, and by threatening reprisals obtain our liberty; whereas here we have only ourselves to depend upon, and the blow may come at any moment." "Well, at any rate, your honour, we will see that none get at you unbeknown. I will lie down in your room against the door, and if the sergeant places a man on guard outside, it is hard if anyone gets at you." "I hardly think the precaution necessary; but there is no saying what this man might not do in so desperate a situation, so I will tell the sergeant to place a sentry at the door, and to relieve him every two hours. I shall think the matter over, and by tomorrow morning shall decide whether I had best remain here and complete my work, or ride at once to Madrid." At about two o'clock in the morning Desmond, who had but just dropped off to sleep, was aroused by hearing the sentry outside his door challenge. There was no answer. All remained quiet. Mike leapt to his feet and opened the door. "What is it?" he asked the sentry. "I saw two or three men at the end of the corridor. It was too dark to make them out clearly. They were coming this way. I levelled my carbine and cried, 'Who comes there?' and at once they stole away. They could have been after no good, for their steps were noiseless, and they must have come up without boots." "Keep a sharp lookout, sentry," Desmond said, "and see that they don't steal up to you, for if they do, you may be stabbed before you have time to turn round. "It is lucky that I carried out your suggestion, Mike, and posted a sentry at the door. Of course, these men the sentry saw may not have been coming here, but at any rate their conduct was suspicious." In a few minutes Desmond was again asleep. He had had a long day's work, and believing that the affair was over, at least for the night, he did not even try to keep awake. As soon as Mike heard, by his breathing, that he was asleep, he got up noiselessly and seated himself near the open window, with a loaded pistol. An hour passed, and then he heard a slight stir in the street. He did not look out, but grasped his pistol tightly. Their room was on the first floor. Presently, he heard a grating sound against the window. It was very dark, and he knelt down so that he would be able to make out any figure that showed above the windowsill. He thought first of rousing his master, but as he had another pistol in his belt, and his sword leaned against the wall, ready to his hand, he thought it better to let matters take their course. He had heard no further sound, but presently a round object appeared in sight. Stretching out his arm, he fired without a moment's hesitation. There was a sound of a heavy fall below, followed by some muttered exclamations. In a moment, Desmond was on his feet, a pistol which he had laid by his pillow in his grasp. "What is it, Mike?" "It is only a gentleman who had a fancy for looking in at the window, your honour, and I have no doubt would have come in, without saying by your leave, if I had not cut the matter short by putting a bullet into his forehead. He had some friends down below. He came up on a ladder." He looked out of the window. "They are taking it down now, your honour. Shall I give them another shot?" "No, Mike; let them go. The lesson has been good enough." The sentry had also run into the room, on hearing the shot. "It is all over," Desmond said. "Seeing that you prevented them from getting in at the door, they tried the window. Mike has shot one of them." There was a sound of feet and loud talking in the passage, and as Desmond went out, the landlord, two of the serving men, and several of those staying at the hotel ran up. "What is it, senor? We heard a shot." "Yes; a fellow tried to enter my window, by means of a ladder; but fortunately my man heard him, and shot him before he came in. No doubt it was some prowling marauder, who, seeing my window open, thought that there was a chance of plunder." "Carrambo!" the landlord exclaimed, "then we shall have enquiries, and all sorts of trouble." "I don't think you will," Desmond said quietly. "I fancy he had some friends down below, and they will probably carry his body and the ladder away, and, if you hold your tongues, nothing more will be heard of it. "Mike, do you and the sentry take a lantern and go down and see." The landlord looked out of the window. "As far as I can see, everything is quiet there," he said. "Are you sure that your servant was not dreaming?" "That you will soon ascertain, if you go down with him," Desmond said. "I fancy that you will find some traces of the affair there." The landlord, followed by his two servants, went down with the soldiers, and then, lighting a lantern and handing it to them, went out, keeping carefully behind them. "There," Mike said, when he stopped under Desmond's window; "does that look like a dream?" and he pointed to a patch of blood on the pavement. "It is true enough," the landlord said. "Pedro and Lopez, fetch pails of water and brooms, and get rid of this blood, otherwise we shall be having enquiries made in the morning." Mike returned to his master, at whose door the sergeant and the other troopers were standing. "There is no occasion, sergeant," Desmond had just said, "to keep a sentry at the door any longer. We can be quite sure that we shall not be disturbed again before morning, and indeed, I am not likely to sleep after this." "Very well, sir; but if you don't mind, I will keep a sentry on watch." "Just as you like, sergeant, but I feel sure there is no occasion for it. Still, after what has happened, it may perhaps be wise to do so." "Well, Mike," Desmond said, when they were again alone, "the campaign has opened with spirit. This is something like that journey with the Baron de Pointdexter, when we expected to be attacked every minute." "Well, we got through that all right, your honour, and it is hard if we don't get through this." At six o'clock, a volley of musketry was fired. "They are practising early, sir," Mike said. "It can't be that, Mike. It is too close. They would go beyond the outer works to practise, and, by the sound, it is certainly much nearer than that, though possibly just outside the walls." "I will go out and enquire, your honour. When one is at war, it is as well to know exactly what the enemy are doing." "Take one of the troopers with you, Mike. Pierre speaks Spanish well." Mike returned in an hour. "They have shot all the prisoners we took yesterday," he said. "I hear they held a sort of court martial in the evening, at the governor's. It did not sit more than ten minutes. They were all found guilty of fraud and treachery, and were shot this morning." "Worse and worse, Mike! Evidently, the governor is determined to get rid of all whose evidence might throw any light on this matter. After what has happened here, and these summary executions, I feel very uncomfortable as to Colonel Mendez. Will you go to the artillery barracks with a message from me that, as I have my first report to write out, I shall not continue the investigations today? Take Pierre with you again." When Mike returned, Desmond saw that his news was bad. "The colonel had not been seen when I got there, and his servant went up to his room and found him lying dead, stabbed to the heart." "Another witness gone," Desmond said. "An honourable gentleman, and a pleasant one. Well, Mike, the matter becomes more and more serious. After this there is but one thing open to me, and that is to return to Madrid at once. When I relate the circumstances to the duke, he will see that, had I endeavoured to carry out the rest of his instructions, the chance of my report ever coming to hand would have been slight indeed, and it is all important that he should get it. "The question is, shall we mount and ride at once, or shall I go and take leave of the governor?" "Of course, your honour, you can do as you like, but I should say that the sooner we are out of this, the better. The longer we stay here, the more time he will have to take care we don't get back alive. "There was another thing I did not tell you, sir. As we went to the barracks, we passed some cavalry men talking. They were arguing that the enemy must be marching this way, for at two o'clock last night ten troopers were suddenly called up and sent off, the gates being opened for them by order of the governor." "Just what I expected, Mike. He has written to warn the various contractors that the frauds have been discovered, and, no doubt, telling them that all messengers from here must be stopped and searched, and all reports and documents taken from them; that if I come myself, I am to be put out of the way; and that if this can be done the matter can be hushed up, as he has taken measures to silence all those who know anything about the affair. "Well, I think you are right. We need not mind saying goodbye to this scoundrel, as it would only give him time to perfect his arrangements. I have no doubt that he would pretend to be ill, or to be engaged in some business that would detain him, and manage to keep me waiting some hours before he saw me. Order the sergeant to saddle up at once. Let the men eat a meal as quickly as possible, and let each put a bottle of wine and a loaf of bread into his valise, so that we shall be able to ride without stopping anywhere. Say that we shall mount in twenty minutes, and they must not wait to polish up their accoutrements. Tell them to put plenty of forage before the horses, and not to put the bridles in their mouths until the last thing. Let each pour four or five feeds of corn into his forage bag. "When you have given the orders, have your own breakfast. I will go downstairs and get something there. I packed my valises while you were away." Exactly twenty minutes later the little troop started. The men had, at Desmond's orders, loaded their pistols and short guns. Avoiding the principal streets, they rode by narrow lanes until they emerged close to the eastern gate. Through this he and his followers rode, without question, at a quiet pace until beyond the exterior fortifications, across the bridge over the Guadiana, and then broke into a canter. The sergeant and men were not a little surprised at the sudden departure, for they had supposed that they would remain for some time at Badajos. Desmond called the sergeant up to his side. "I dare say you are surprised at this sudden move, but you know that two attempts were made upon my life last night, and I have no doubt that these would be repeated, and perhaps with greater success, had I stayed there. You were present yesterday, with two of your men, when we discovered that large portions of the stores were mere dummies filled with earth. Whether or not the governor was a party to the fraud I cannot say, but this morning he had all the storekeepers who were arrested shot, and Colonel Mendez, who was present at the investigation, was murdered during the night. It is evident, therefore, that many people are interested in preventing the discovery we made from getting known. Of course, the soldiers who assisted would be aware of it, but they would not venture to speak, and it is only I and your men and my servant who have still to be silenced. "I tell you this, in order that you may impress upon the men the necessity for the greatest vigilance, such as they would use if travelling through an enemy's country. Messengers were, I hear, sent off yesterday evening in various directions, and I have no doubt that these were to the various contractors concerned in the plot, urging upon them the necessity of preventing the news from reaching Madrid; and perhaps to some of the robber bands in the sierra. Therefore, instead of keeping the main road up the valley, we will ride by country tracks and avoid all large towns. We will not put up anywhere, but will bivouac in the open. In this way I hope that we shall yet avoid any parties of men who may be lying in wait for us. "The most dangerous part of the journey will, of course, be the passage of the mountains. We must there travel by one or other of the roads through the defiles, and it is possible all these may be watched. If we are attacked, we must endeavour to ride through them. If this is impossible, we will sell our lives as dearly as we can." "You may trust us for that, Major," the sergeant said. "I have no love for these Spaniards, and we are all discontented at being kept down here to fight the King of Spain's battles, instead of being up in the north, where every man is wanted to prevent the enemy marching to Paris." They struck off from the road when nearing Merida, and followed a country track until they came upon the road between that town and Torre Mocha. Avoiding the latter place, they took the road to Truxillo, and, late in the afternoon, approached that town and halted in a wood two miles distant from it. Here Desmond consulted his map. There were two roads from Truxillo. Crossing the sierra, the main and shorter road came down upon the Tagus at Almarez. The other passed through Deleytoza, and came down upon the bridge at Condo. Beyond Deleytoza it appeared to be a mere mule track. "If there are any parties watching," he said to Mike, "they will expect that my messenger, or I myself, will travel by the main road to Almarez, for not only is it better, but it is shorter. But again, they might think that, if I suspected we might be attacked, I should take the road through Deleytoza, and would, at any rate, make matters safe by watching both roads. It is a difficult question which to choose." "Well, your honour, if you have got to fight, it would be best to do so on a good road. Our horses would be of no use to us, if we were going single file along a bad road; while on a good road we could charge the spalpeens, and cut our way through." "You are quite right, Mike, and we will take the main road. They will not be mounted, and I don't think they would stand before a charge of seven men; but they may shoot some of us as we come down upon them. "See here, Mike, this is my report that I wrote out yesterday evening;" and he took a packet from the inside of his coat. "When we start tomorrow morning I shall put it in my left holster. If I am shot, you will not wait for a moment, but will snatch it out and ride on to Madrid, and deliver it to the duke there. I have, this morning, added a few lines relating the murder of Colonel Mendez, the hurried trial and execution of the storekeepers, and the attempts upon my life, and said I have not the least doubt that the governor is at the bottom of it all." "If your honour is killed, I will carry out your orders, but if it is only wounded you are, I will try to take you off with me." "You must do as I order you." "I obey your honour's orders when they are reasonable," Mike said doggedly; "but leave you behind, to have your throat cut by those villains! I would not do such a thing, so there is an end of it." Desmond smiled at the earnestness of his faithful follower. "Well, Mike, you must be guided by circumstances; but remember, it is of extreme importance that this report should reach the Duke of Orleans. Unless he has it we may lose Badajos, and the cause suffer irreparable injury." "To the devil wid the cause," Mike said. "The cause doesn't trouble me one way or the other. I don't care a brass farthing whether Philip or Charles reigns over the Spaniards. It is not a nice job they will be taking on, any way, and not worth a drop of Irish blood. Well, if your honour should have the bad fortune to be hit, I shall either carry you off, though there's not a breath in your body, or else go down with you." As there was no doubt that Mike meant what he said, Desmond did not press the matter further. The next day they set out at daybreak, and, in two hours, were mounting the slope of the sierra. There were no signs of any men being about, until they reached a point where the road ran between steep hills. "There they are," Desmond exclaimed, reining in his horse. "There are some thirty or forty of them on the road. "Now, my men, we will ride forward to those boulders you see, a hundred yards this side of them, and then we will dismount and give them a volley. If you keep that up, it will soon be too hot for them to remain on the road; while we, sheltered behind the rocks, will be safe from their shot. It is certain that your guns will carry farther and shoot straighter than theirs, as the Spanish powder is so much inferior to the French." Accordingly, they rode forward at a canter to the heap of boulders, then suddenly left the road, dismounted, and took cover among the rocks. "Take steady aim, men," Desmond said, "then you can hardly miss hitting some of them, standing close together as they do." The bandits had waited, undecided, at the sudden disappearance of those whom they had regarded as a certain prey; and before they could form any plans, five muskets flashed out, and four of their number fell. A cry of rage burst from them, and there was a general discharge of their guns, the balls pattering thickly against the stones. The soldiers now fired as quickly as they could load, doing considerable execution. Their foes left the road, and imitated them by taking shelter behind stones. For ten minutes the combat continued, and then a party of men were seen, mounting the hill on either side. "That is just what I hoped for," Desmond said. "Fire at them, so as to force them to climb a little higher up the hill. As soon as they are pretty well out of gunshot, we will mount and charge down the road. There cannot be many men left there." His orders were followed. Some of the men on the hillside dropped, and the others continued to mount the slopes. When, as they believed, out of fire, they moved forward so as to take the defenders of the rocks in flank. "Now, fire a volley among the men in front of us," Desmond said. "We are not likely to hit any of them, but it is sure to draw their fire, and there will not be many unemptied guns as we pass them." As he expected, the volley was answered by a general fire from their hidden foes. Then the party leapt into their saddles, and, pistol in hand, galloped up the road. Several hurried shots were fired from the front, and then, at a shout from their leader, some twenty men leapt from their hiding places and ran down into the road. Desmond was supported on one side by Mike, and on the other by the sergeant. He dropped his reins--the horse had learned to obey the motions of his knees--and, drawing his sword, rode straight at the bandits. Only a few muskets were discharged, and these so hurriedly that the balls missed their aim, and, with a shout, the party fell upon the brigands. The pistols of the troopers and Mike cracked out, but they had no need to draw their swords, for the rush of the horses struck such a panic into the Spaniards that they sprang from the road, leaving the path clear, and the party thundered past them without a check. "Is anyone wounded?" Desmond asked, when they had passed beyond gunshot of their assailants. "I have a ball in my shoulder, Major," one of the troopers said. The rest were silent. "Well, we have been fortunate," Desmond said. "I will see to your wound, my man, when we get a little farther. If those fellows had not been so scared with our sudden charge that they fired almost at random, we might have lost half our number." They stopped half a mile farther, and Desmond examined the trooper's arm. "The ball has gone through the flesh," he said, "without touching the bone, so you will soon have the use of it again." He bound the wound tightly up with the soldier's sash; and then made, with his own, a sling. "You may as well put the other arm in your jacket," he said, "and I will tie it round your neck. The air is cold upon the hills." "We did that well, sir," the sergeant said, as they rode on again. "If you had not thought of taking shelter, and shaking them up, we should all have been shot down before we reached them. "Is there any chance of another attack, sir?" "None at all. I should think a messenger was sent to them, yesterday, telling them our strength; and no doubt they thought that, with sixty men, they would be certain to overpower us. That is probably the whole of the band, and in any case, as they would not imagine that we could pass them, they are not likely to have set another ambush." They slept that night at Almarez, made a short journey to Oropesa, and a long one on the following day to Toledo, where Desmond dismissed his escort, with a handsome reward for their services, and upon the next afternoon rode with Mike into Madrid. The Duke of Orleans looked astonished when he entered the room. "What! Back already, Major Kennedy? Surely you cannot have carried out all the work that I entrusted to you?" "By no means, Your Royal Highness; but what I did carry out was so important that I deemed it my duty to ride back at once, to acquaint you with what I have discovered. There is the report, sir." The duke took it. "It is a bulky one," he said. "Tell me its purport in as few words as possible." "I have discovered, sir, that the report sent by the governor of the supply of provisions and stores in Badajos is altogether inaccurate, that frauds to an enormous extent have been perpetrated, that the supply of powder and cartridges is less by two-thirds than was represented, and that similar deficiencies exist in every department." "This is indeed serious," the duke said. "The possession of Badajos is essential to us. It blocks the way to an enemy's advance, and indeed, they can scarce move forward until it is captured. Now, tell me more about it; or no, I will read your report, and then question you concerning it." A heavy frown settled on the duke's brow, as he perused the document. "Infamous!" he exclaimed, when he had finished. "And you say that two attempts were made to murder you that night, and that the Spanish colonel who gave you so much assistance was assassinated, and the commissaries shot the next morning? It shows how anxious the governor was to remove from his path all those who could inculpate him. "And how did you manage to get out of the toils? For it was clearly of no use killing the minor witnesses, and allowing you to ride here to report the facts." "I saw that, sir; and as I learned that eight or ten troopers had been sent off, late the night before, I concluded that the road would be sure to be beset, for doubtless some of the contractors would feel it as essential as the governor did, that my mouth should be silenced and my report suppressed. I therefore started early. Keeping by byroads, we were not molested until we had nearly reached the summit of the sierra, when we found a party of some sixty men barring the road. We had a fight with them, and succeeded in getting through with no further damage than a ball through the arm of one of my escort, and that, fortunately, was only a flesh wound." "But tell me how it was that so small a party escaped so easily?" Desmond then recounted the incidents of the fight. "Admirably contrived, sir!" the duke said warmly. "Excellent generalship! You first attack their centre and drive them off the road, then you compel them to weaken themselves by throwing out flanking parties. You keep these out of musket shot, and then charge on their weakened centre after drawing their fire. I am not surprised that, with such generalship, you got off almost scatheless. "And now, sir, I must ask you to come with me to the king. The matter is too serious for a moment's delay. I must lay the whole case before His Majesty." Leaving Desmond in the antechamber, he went in to the king, read the full report to him, and added the details he had heard from Desmond. "I have met with many bad cases of Spanish corruption and peculation," the king said, when he had finished, "but this is by far the worst. Steps must be taken instantly to secure the governor, arrest the contractors, and fill up the magazines. What do you propose?" "I think, sir, that if we send forward, at once, a regiment of French soldiers from Toledo, accompanied by Colonel Crofton's regiment of dragoons, there is no likelihood that any resistance will be offered--indeed, I should imagine that the governor will have taken to flight, as soon as he learns that his plans for the assassination of Major Kennedy have failed." "So I should think," the king said; "and certainly he will have warned his accomplices, the contractors; and probably, by this time, they are all on their way either into Andalusia or to the north. Any that are found shall certainly be hanged. "This young officer of yours must be a wonderfully shrewd fellow. I should like to question him as to how he discovered these frauds." Desmond was called in. "This is Major Kennedy, Your Majesty," the duke said. "That is his temporary rank, which I bestowed upon him in order to add weight to his mission." "I have noticed him before, cousin," Philip said, "when I had gone to your quarters, and wondered to see so young a man in the uniform of a captain. "Now, sir, will you give me an account of how you discovered these frauds?" Desmond then related how he had caused the piles of barrels to be opened out, so that he could examine those next to the wall as well as those in front; and how he had similarly examined the other stores. "Very good, indeed, sir," the king said. "Most officers would have contented themselves with, at most, counting the number of barrels and sacks; and that you should have so thoroughly investigated the matter shows both zeal and shrewdness." "He has shown that on various occasions," the duke said, "as you may judge from the promotion that he has received. As you see, by the loss of his hand, he has suffered as well as fought on behalf of France. When Your Majesty is at leisure I will, some evening, relate to you a story which I heard from the king himself, of the manner in which he, twice, rescued a fair damsel from an evil-minded noble who carried her off." "I shall hear it with pleasure, cousin. You say he holds only temporary rank. I think that, after the signal service he has rendered, it should be made substantial." "I certainly intend to make it so," the duke said. "Pardon, sir," Desmond said, "but, while thanking you for your kindness, I would beg to be allowed to remain a captain. Already I have obtained more promotion than others have done, after many years of good service, and I should regret very much passing over the heads of so many of my old companions." "It is the first time that I have had promotion declined," the duke said, smiling. "However, for the present, at least, I will let the matter remain so." With an expression of warm thanks, Desmond retired. "We must lose no time over this matter," the king said. "For aught we know, this scoundrel may be in communication with the enemy, and may be prepared to open the gates of the fortress at the first summons." "I will act at once," the duke replied. "I will, this evening, send orders to Toledo for a regiment to march at nine o'clock tomorrow morning, and, if you will send a similar order to Colonel Crofton, he will overtake the infantry before they get to Almarez." "I will do so, and will also send with them three field officers, with full power to arrest, try, and execute all those who have taken part in this treacherous fraud." On the duke leaving the king, Desmond joined him in the antechamber, and as they walked towards the French headquarters, said: "I hope, sir, that you will permit me to start tomorrow with any force you may be sending, as I wish to carry out the rest of the mission with which you entrusted me." "By all means, do so if you wish it," the duke said. "Colonel Crofton's regiment will start at nine o'clock tomorrow morning, and you may accompany it. On the road it will overtake one of our regiments from Toledo."	{ "id": "18349" }
16	: Captured.	"I have a job for you, Mike." "What is it, your honour?" "I want you to take off all the marks of a field officer from my clothes. I am going to be a captain again." Mike looked with surprise at his master. "Well, your honour, it is ungrateful bastes they must be. Sure I thought that the least they could do was to make you a full major, though if they had made you a colonel, it would be no more than you deserve." "I was offered the majority, Mike, but I declined it. It would be absurd, at my age, to have such a rank, and I should be ashamed to look officers of our brigade, who have done nigh twenty years of good service and are still only captains, in the face. I would much rather remain as I am." "Well, it may be you are right, sir, but it is disappointed I am, entirely." "You will get over it, Mike," Desmond laughed. "That may be," Mike said doubtfully, "but I should have felt mighty proud of being a colonel's servant." "I don't suppose you will ever be that, Mike. You know that, after the last war was over, several of the Irish regiments were disbanded, and no doubt it will be the same when this war is finished, so you could not count upon seeing me a colonel, at any rate not for another twenty years." "Ah, your honour, I hope we shall be back in old Ireland years before that!" "I hope so, too, Mike. I have only been out here for two years, and yet I am beginning to feel that I should like a quieter life. No doubt the loss of my hand has something to do with that, but I would give up, willingly, all chance of ever becoming a colonel, if I could but settle down in the old country, though I fear there is very little chance of that." "But sure there may be fighting there, too, your honour," Mike said; "and if King James goes across the water, there is sure to be divarsion that way." "I hope not, Mike. It is not that I do not feel as loyal as ever to the cause of the Stuarts, but if they cannot come to their own without Ireland being again deluged with blood, I would rather they would stay away. Twice Ireland has suffered for the Stuarts: first, when Cromwell came over, carrying fire and sword through the land, and divided half the country among his followers; next, when Dutch William did the same. I am loyal to the Stuarts, as I said, but I am still more loyal to Ireland, and would rather that King James remained all his life at Saint Germain, than that those scenes should ever come again." "That's true for you, sir; and when I come to think of it, I should be just as easy and comfortable in a snug little cot in Killarney, which is my county, whether King James or Queen Anne was ruling it in England." "Quite so, Mike; and if I had, as you say, a snug little cot to go to, and an income to live comfortably in it, and no fear of being hauled off to prison and hanged for joining the brigade, I should not be sorry to settle down. "We start back for Badajos tomorrow morning." "Faith, your honour, it has been so hard getting away from there, that I should not have thought you wished to put your foot inside the place again. You might not be so lucky in getting off, next time." "We are going in a different way, Mike. Colonel Crofton's regiment of Irish dragoons is going with us, and a French infantry regiment from Toledo." "Then I am well content to go back, your honour, and I hope we shall see that murthering governor hung." "I think you have a good chance of seeing that, Mike, if he has not taken himself off before we arrive there; which I think he is pretty sure to do, directly he hears we have got through safely; for he will know that, as soon as my report is handed in, he is a lost man." "Bad cess to him! At any rate, I hope I shall light upon him some day, sir, and pay him out for sending those fellows to kill you at night, and to hinder us in the hills. As to his cheating the Spaniards, that is their business, and they can reckon with him for it; but I should like to pay our debt myself." "I don't suppose there is much chance of your having an opportunity of doing that." "Then why are we going back, your honour?" "To carry out my original orders, Mike--survey the roads, and passes, and bridges. The duke cannot rely upon Spanish testimony in these matters, and it is most important that we should ascertain, accurately, how good are the roads by which he would advance with the army into Portugal, or where best to oppose the enemy if they cross the Guadiana." "I am glad to hear you say so, sir, for I was afraid that we were going to have a long stay here again, and I would rather be on horseback, riding all over the country, than walking up and down these streets till my feet fairly ache." "That is my opinion, too, Mike. We have had a good many rides with despatches, but between times it is stupid work, hanging about the general's quarters waiting for orders." The next morning, Desmond joined Colonel Crofton's regiment as it was on the point of starting from the barracks. It was in the service of Spain, and had taken a brilliant part in several engagements. Desmond was acquainted with the colonel and his officers. "Good morning, Kennedy!" Crofton said, as he rode up and saluted him. "I had a note from the Duke of Orleans, last night, saying you were going on special service, and would travel with us as far as Badajos. King Philip sent for me, later on, and himself gave me instructions, besides handing me the written orders. It seems you have discovered that the governor is mixed up, with a lot of contractors, in swindling the state by supplying earth instead of powder and flour." "So far as the governor goes, Colonel, there is no absolute proof. I have not the smallest doubt that he was the prime mover in the matter, and that the commissaries only received a small portion of the bribes paid to him. It is hardly possible that every one of them should have betrayed his trust, unless sure of the governor's protection. I cannot prove that he had all these men shot in order to silence them, employed men to assassinate Colonel Mendez, or set men to murder me in my hotel and afterwards to intercept us in crossing the sierra. Still, I have no shadow of doubt in my mind that it was so. "However, I do not think you will find him at Badajos. No doubt, as soon as he heard I had got safely down into the valley of the Tagus, he made off. There is just a possibility that the contractors, knowing that their lives will be forfeited by the discovery of the frauds, might at once have sent in supplies of powder, flour, and other things, to take the place of the casks and sacks of earth; in which case he would probably deny the truth of my statement altogether, and declare that I had simply invented it in order to do credit to myself. But I hardly think that possible. In the first place, there are the soldiers both of my escort and of Colonel Mendez, who assisted in the work of examination; besides which more than half the commissaries escaped while this was taking place, and, on an offer of pardon, would no doubt gladly come forward and give evidence, especially as the execution of their comrades will have shown them that the governor is determined to throw them over." "Yes; I don't suppose we shall find the arch-scoundrel there, unless, indeed, he can rely upon the support of his garrison; in which case he may have ridden to Portugal, offering to surrender the place at once to them, and will close his gates against us." "I don't think there is any chance of that, Colonel. In the short time during which I was there, I was able to see that the troops were deeply discontented. They were almost in rags, and the landlord of the inn told me that they were kept on the scantiest rations, and those of a very inferior kind. So I do not think, for a moment, he could trust them to act against a royal force." Desmond's anticipation proved to be correct. As they descended into the valley of the Guadiana, they met an officer of the garrison, who was bearing a despatch from the senior military officer, saying that the governor and his family had suddenly left without issuing any orders, and, as he had taken all his portable property with him, it was supposed that he did not intend to return. Under these circumstances he wrote to ask for orders. Colonel Crofton sent him back with instructions, to the colonel commanding the troops, that he was coming with a regiment of dragoons and one of infantry, and had full authority from the king to take all measures that seemed to him desirable. Accordingly, when they arrived at Badajos they were met, at the gate, by the colonel commanding the troops, and a party of his officers. "I have the king's authority," Colonel Crofton said to him, "to act as temporary governor until another may be appointed. I do not know whether you are aware of the circumstances that led to the flight of Don Juan de Munos?" "No, sir, we have heard nothing. Rumours were current, among the men, that some strange discoveries were made when the stores were examined, but beyond that I know nothing. In fact, at the time, the assassination of Colonel Mendez of the artillery created such an excitement that nothing else was spoken of." "Well, Colonel, if you will accompany me to the governor's house, I will enter into the matter fully with you. You may well believe that it is serious, as I have been despatched here with my regiment, and with one of French infantry, for both of whom quarters must be found at once." "There is plenty of room, sir. The barracks will contain ten thousand men, and at present we have but four thousand here." "Then I beg, Colonel, that instead of coming at once to my quarters, you will tell off officers to conduct the troops to the most convenient of the buildings now empty. After that, I shall be glad to see you and the commanding officers of the other regiments. "You will, of course, take up your quarters at the governor's house, Captain Kennedy," he went on, as he rode forward. "As you are going to be employed in surveying duties, you will naturally be a good deal away. But your presence here will be absolutely necessary, as a witness against any of these rascally contractors we can lay our hands on." When the four colonels arrived, after seeing that the troops were housed, Colonel Crofton obtained from them the names and addresses of the various contractors; and, half an hour later, parties of the cavalry regiment in garrison were despatched, under officers, with orders to arrest and bring them into Badajos. During the meal, Colonel Crofton explained to the four colonels the discovery of the frauds, which naturally excited the greatest indignation among them. He then requested them and Desmond to accompany him to the stores. This they did, after sending to the barracks for a party of fifty men for fatigue duty. The gaps made during Desmond's explorations had been carefully filled up again, but upon fresh openings being made, his reports were fully borne out. Some hours were spent at the central magazine, and orders given that the other magazines should be opened and examined on the following day. Desmond did not join in this search, but started early, with Mike, to carry out his own mission. He had been furnished with reports, sent in by the provincial and local juntas, as to the state of the roads, but, as he had expected, he soon found these to be grossly inaccurate. The roads marked as excellent, and fit for the passage of artillery and trains, were found to be mere bridle roads. Others, marked as highroads, were almost impassable lanes. The bridges across the streams were, for the most part, in such a bad condition as to be unsafe for a country cart and, until repaired, impossible for the passage of artillery. He carefully noted all the points at which work was required to render them in any degree practicable for the passage of troops, and reported fully to Colonel Crofton. The latter, who was provided with full authority, despatched the greater portion of his troops, with a large number of peasants, with materials to fill up the deep ruts, repair the bridges, and make the roads, as far as possible, fit for the passage of an army. In ten days, Desmond had surveyed all the roads down both the valley of the Guadiana and that of the Tagus, and had sent off his report to Madrid, together with his observations as to the points at which a defensive position could, in his opinion, be best taken up. Having done this, he prepared to undertake the second part of his mission, and to investigate the roads on the Portuguese side of the frontier. "Now we shall have to keep our eyes open, Mike," he said. "So far as we have heard, there are no bodies of the enemy's troops anywhere in this neighbourhood, but there is a bitter enmity between the Spanish and Portuguese, and we shall be liable to be attacked by the peasants." "Are we to ride in our uniforms, your honour?" "Certainly we are, Mike. If we are captured in uniform, we should be dealt with as prisoners of war and have a right to fair treatment. If we are taken in disguise, we shall be shot as spies." "Faith, your honour, the alternative is not a pleasant one. If we go as civilians, we may be shot as spies; if we go in uniform, we may be murdered by the peasants." "That is so, Mike. But, you see, we are not likely to fall into the hands of the peasants. We are both well mounted, and the peasants will be on foot, and a great proportion of them unarmed; so that, beyond the chance of being hit by a ball, the risk is not great." Accordingly, on the following day they rode out, and for nearly a week examined the lines of route across the frontier. They followed the roads between the foot of the mountains and the frontier, as far as Portalegre, but avoided the towns of Campo Mayor and Arronches; crossed the hills, and struck upwards by the bank of the Zarina to Frontiera, and thence west as far as Lavre. They met with no interference by such peasants as they saw working in the fields, or by those in the small villages through which they passed, these supposing the uniforms to be those of English or Dutch officers. They found that the roads were fully as bad as those of Spain, and would present great difficulty to any army with artillery and a long train of waggons. In one of the places they heard from a peasant, with whom they conversed, that there was another pass over the mountains from Elvas. Of course, the man spoke in Portuguese, but the language sufficiently resembled Spanish for Desmond to understand its meaning. "We must investigate that road, Mike, for, if it is practicable, it would be the most direct for an army coming from Lisbon. Of course, we shall have to make a wide circle round Elvas, as there is sure to be a strong garrison there, and any soldiers riding about the country would be certain to know that our uniform was French. When we have done that road, we shall have finished our work." Accordingly, they passed round the fortress at a distance, and presently came upon the road. It showed signs of having lately been repaired, in some parts, but these were so badly done that they increased rather than diminished the difficulties it presented to the passage of troops. They had ridden some ten miles, and were already among the mountains, when they dismounted to rest their horses and to eat the food they carried with them. Suddenly, looking down the road behind them, they saw a squadron of cavalry coming along. "This is awkward, Mike. There is nothing for it, now, but to ride on, and when we have reached the foot of the mountains on the other side, strike across country until we come upon the road running direct to Badajos. They are a good two miles behind us, so we need not blow our horses." Mounting, they proceeded at a trot up the road. As far as they could see, the cavalry behind them did not quicken their pace, which showed that they were on some ordinary duty and not, as Desmond at first supposed, in pursuit of them, some peasant having, perhaps, taken word that an officer and soldier in strange uniform had been seen riding round the town. They therefore took matters quietly, and indeed, sometimes the road was so steep that it would have been impossible for the horses to go beyond a quick walk. Suddenly, on reaching the crest of the rise, they saw, at a distance of a hundred yards ahead of them, a party of officers, followed by an escort of dragoons. "We are caught this time, Mike!" Desmond exclaimed. "Escape is impossible. I will ride straight up and surrender. Fortunately they are English uniforms, so we are certain to get fair treatment, which we could not be sure of, had they been Portuguese." So saying, he rode forward at a trot. The party had drawn rein at his approach, and he rode up to one who was evidently a general officer. "Sir, I surrender as a prisoner of war. My name is Kennedy, and I am a captain on the staff of the Duke of Orleans." "And what are you doing here, sir?" "I am surveying the road, General, by which the allied army is likely to advance. Our information on that score is very defective, and I believe the duke wishes to ascertain, from my report, the state of the roads by which the advance would most probably be made." The general's question had been in French, and he replied in the same language. "You do not bear a French name, sir," the general said. "No, sir, I am an Irishman," Kennedy replied, in English. "I belonged, before I received a staff appointment, to one of the regiments of the Irish Brigade." "You are a daring fellow, thus to venture so far across the frontier." "I simply obeyed my orders, sir; and, had I been ordered to reconnoitre Lisbon, I should have attempted to do so." "Well, sir, I shall have an opportunity of talking to you, later on. I, as you see, am engaged in precisely the same work as you are; namely, in ascertaining, for myself, the state of the roads across these mountains." "Then, General," Desmond said, with a smile, "I should say that your investigations are hardly satisfactory." The general also smiled. "Not so much so as I could wish," he said. "And now, may I ask why, seeing that you are well mounted, you did not turn and ride for it, when you first perceived us?" "The reason is simple, General. A squadron of cavalry were coming up behind me, and there was evidently no possibility of escape." "No doubt they were sent out to meet me. Well, sir, if you will give me your word not to attempt to escape, you can retain your sword, and ride with us." "I give my parole, sir, with many thanks for your courtesy." "And now, Captain Kennedy," the other went on, "it is probable that you have, about you, the result of your investigations along these roads, which I must request you to hand to me; as it may be as useful, to me, as it would have been to the Duke of Orleans, and may save me a good deal of trouble." Desmond took out the notebook in which he had, each day, jotted down the result of his observations, with suggestions as to the points where repairs were most needed. He had each night, on his return to Badajos, written up his reports from these, intending, when he had completed the work, to take it himself to Madrid. The general glanced through the notebook. "You have done your work very thoroughly, Captain Kennedy, and have rendered me considerable service. Now, we will move forward again. Please follow with my aides-de-camp." These were two pleasant young men, who were glad of a talk with an officer from the other side. "How long have you been riding about here, if it is fair to put the question?" one said. As the notebook contained all the particulars of his journeys on that side of the frontier, Desmond replied at once: "Eight days, I think. I have been up the road to Portalegre, and by that to Lavre; and if I had not, unfortunately, accidentally heard of this road over the mountains, I should now be on my way to Madrid; but luck has been against me." "Promotion must be very rapid in your army," the other aide-de-camp said, "or you would hardly be a captain already." "I was fortunate enough to attract the notice of the King of France, and the Duke of Berwick, on various occasions, and when one has such a piece of good fortune as that, promotion is rapid." "It is lucky for you that you fell into the hands of the Earl of Galway, instead of into those of the Portuguese generals, who would probably, in spite of your uniform, have made short work of you." "I did not know that the general was the Earl of Galway," Desmond said. "Certainly, it was lucky that I fell into his hands. Indeed, if I had not seen the English uniforms, I should have turned and charged the squadron behind us; preferring very much to be killed fighting, than to be hanged or shot like a dog." In a few minutes they met the squadron of cavalry, who had, as the general supposed, been sent out by the Governor of Elvas to meet him. Half of these now took their place in front, and the remainder, drawing aside to let the party pass, fell in behind. Mike had, without orders, fallen in with the earl's escort; and more than once Desmond heard his laugh, as he chatted with the troopers. On arriving at Elvas, the general directed his aides-de-camp to obtain a room, for Desmond, in the house in which they were quartered; and as no one attended to him, Mike undertook his usual duties as his servant. The next morning, one of the aides-de-camp came in, and said: "The general wishes to speak to you, Captain Kennedy." On entering the general's apartment, the earl asked him to take a seat. "I could not see you yesterday evening," he began, "as I was learning from the Governor the state of the stores here. I should like to have a talk with you. May I ask you, in the first place, how you have so early attained the rank of captain? My aide-de-camp tells me that you said you had attracted the notice of the King of France. It must have been by some singular action, and as I have an hour to spare, before I ride out, I shall be glad if you can tell me some particulars about yourself; unless, indeed, they are of a private nature." "Not at all, sir. The story is generally known to members of the court at Versailles, and indeed to all Paris;" and he then related to the earl the story of his release of Anne de Pointdexter from her imprisonment, the journey to the south, the attack on the party by the Vicomte de Tulle, and her second rescue from him. "Thank you, sir," the general said, when he had concluded. "I am not surprised that, after so romantic an adventure, the King of France took notice of an officer who had shown such courage and intelligence. You see, sir, that you and I are, to a certain extent, in a similar position. From motives of religion, principally, you Irish have left your country, and are fighting for a foreign monarch. I, as you are doubtless aware, belong to a French Huguenot family, and, being forced to leave France by the severe edicts, entered the service of Holland, and followed the fortunes of King William, and am now fighting against the troops of the country of my birth. In other respects, there is a similarity. We have both lost a hand in the service of our adopted countries; I at the siege of Badajos, and you at--?" "Oudenarde, sir." "I have been thinking it over," the general went on. "I might, of course, send you to Lisbon as a prisoner, but one extra prisoner would not largely benefit my government. You have not been taken in action. Your papers have saved me an immense deal of trouble, for we are no more able to rely upon the information given by the Portuguese than, I should think, the Duke of Orleans can upon that of the Spaniards. "Therefore, sir, I think that, in the present case, I can make an exception to the rule. In an hour I shall mount and ride down the road to Badajos, and I shall there restore your liberty to you, and permit you to recross the frontier. It would be a thousand pities that so young and gallant an officer should waste, perhaps, some years of his life in an English prison, for the number of prisoners taken in Flanders is so great that it is impossible for the French to find officers to exchange for them. You will understand that, dealing with allies so jealous and susceptible as the Portuguese, I can hardly take the step of releasing you, as it would be at once rumoured that I had been in communication with a French officer, doubtless from some sinister motive. "I think, Captain Kennedy, that it would be as well," he said with a smile, "that you should withdraw your parole, and do so before we start, in the presence of the officers of my staff. Of course, you must be placed under a very strict guard, and although so near the frontier, you will find it very difficult to escape. Still, such things are managed." "I thank you most deeply, sir," Desmond said, understanding the tone in which the earl spoke, "and I shall ever retain a deep feeling of gratitude for your generosity." When the party assembled, in readiness to mount, Desmond walked up to the earl, and said in a tone that could be heard by the officers round: "Sir, I have changed my mind, and beg to be allowed to withdraw my parole." "You are at liberty to do so, Captain Kennedy; but nevertheless I shall take you with us today. I shall not, of course, ask you to give any information as to matters on the other side of the frontier, but there are points on which you could inform me, without detriment to your friends." "That I shall be happy to do, sir." The earl called up four troopers. "You will place this officer and his servant between you," he said, "and keep a vigilant lookout upon their movements." Desmond had not even told Mike of the conversation with the earl, thinking it better that he should remain in ignorance that this escape was connived at by an English general, and his follower was therefore greatly astonished when he heard that his master had withdrawn his parole, and that they were henceforth to be strictly guarded. The party rode until they reached a rise from which they could obtain a view of Badajos, and of the country extending far up the valley of the Guadiana. The ground in front of them sloped gradually. The earl took his place with two or three officers of his staff, fifty yards in front of the rest, and, dismounting, examined Badajos with his telescope. Then he asked one of his aides-de-camp to bring Captain Kennedy to him. "You may as well bring his servant, too," he added. "No doubt he knows the country as well as his master does, and may not be so unwilling to answer questions." The order was carried out, and Desmond and Mike rode up with the aide-de-camp, followed closely by the four troopers. The earl at once began to question Desmond as to the names of the villages visible up the valley. He had remounted now, but his staff, who had dismounted when he did, remained on their feet, as it was evident that he had no intention of moving forward for some time. While they were speaking, the earl, accompanied by Desmond, rode forward some twenty yards, as if to obtain a better view. Mike had followed him, but the four troopers remained behind the group of officers, having no orders to follow the general so closely. "This is good ground for galloping, Captain Kennedy," the earl said quietly. "You are within two miles of Badajos." "Thank you deeply, sir. "Now, Mike, ride for it!" and, spurring his horse, he dashed off at a headlong gallop. There was a shout of surprise, the officers of the staff ran to their horses, which were being held by the orderlies, and the four troopers at once galloped forward, snatching their carbines from the slings. "Do not fire," the earl shouted as they passed. "Take them alive." As the officers came up, the general signalled to them to stop. "Don't go farther, gentlemen," he said. "The troopers will doubtless overtake them; but for aught we know, there may be a Spanish force in the village just on the other side of the frontier, and, instead of capturing two prisoners, you might be taken or shot yourself; and I am not disposed to lose any of my staff, just as we are about to commence operations in earnest." Desmond looked back. He saw that only the four dragoons were following. "They will not overtake us, Mike," he said, "our horses are certainly better than theirs." Indeed, they had increased their lead fast. A few minutes later, they heard a trumpet call in their rear, and their pursuers at once checked their horses, and rode back in answer to the recall. "Tare an' ages," Mike exclaimed, "but that was nately managed. Who would have thought that they would have let us give them the slip so easily!" "Well, Mike--but this you must never mention to a soul--the earl gave us this chance of escape, I believe. He had, you know, a long talk with me, and said that they had so many French officers captured in Flanders, that one more or less would make little difference. He had asked about my adventures, and seemed much interested in them, and remarked that our positions were somewhat similar, both being exiles on account of our religion, and so serving in foreign armies against our own countrymen. At any rate, it was on his suggestion that I withdrew my parole not to attempt to escape." "Then he is a rale gintleman, sir, and mighty obliged I feel to him, for I have had enough of English prisons, though indeed, it was only three or four days that I stopped at Harwich." The party on the hill had watched the pursuit, until the earl said: "Well, gentlemen, I fancy he has slipped from our hands. I admit that I am hardly sorry, for he was a very fine young fellow, and it would have been a pity for him to be spending, perhaps some years of the best part of his life, in prison. "Captain Chetwynde, will you order the trumpeter to sound the recall? They are leaving our men behind fast. It is no use losing four troopers as well as two prisoners." More than one quiet smile was exchanged between the English officers, for, from the tone in which the earl spoke, they had no doubt that he was by no means sorry at Desmond's escape, and that possibly he had even taken him forward with him to afford him a chance of making it. They had, indeed, been a little surprised that, when Desmond withdrew his parole, the earl had not ordered him into strict confinement, instead of taking him with him on his reconnaissance. The pursuit over, Desmond rode on at a canter to Badajos, and reported to Colonel Crofton that he had been taken prisoner, but had managed to effect his escape, as he was but carelessly guarded. "I shall now, sir, return to Madrid. I have completed the work I was told to carry out, and shall finish writing up my report this afternoon, and start tomorrow morning." "I congratulate you on your escape. The Portuguese are not very particular, and might, as likely as not, have paid small regard to the fact that you were in uniform." "Fortunately, sir, it was not by them that I was captured, but by a small party of English dragoons, who were, I fancy, like myself, investigating the state of the roads." Desmond had not been called upon to give evidence before the commission of enquiry, it being found that all the contractors had left their homes, a week before the troops arrived at Badajos, taking all portable property with them. Some had apparently gone to Andalusia, while others had made for Catalonia. All had unquestionably made a considerable sum of money by their frauds, and would take good care not to fall into the hands of the French. "They will never be able to return here," Desmond remarked to Colonel Crofton. The latter smiled. "You do not know these people yet, Captain Kennedy, or you would not say so. Some of these fellows are certainly among the richest men in the province, and we may be quite sure that, in a very short time, when the affair has blown over, they will, partly by influence and more by bribery, obtain from the central junta an order that no proceedings shall be taken against them. Anything can be done with money in Spain. There are many upright and honourable Spaniards, but very few of them take any part in public affairs, and would not associate with such men as those who are in the ascendant in all the provincial juntas, and even in the central body in Madrid. "In France there is distress enough, and no doubt the men who farm the taxes are no more scrupulous than they are in Spain, but there is not the same general corruption, and the French nobility, haughty and despotic to their tenants as they may be, are not corrupt, and would scorn to take a bribe. Now that there is a French king on the throne here, there may be, when matters have settled down, some improvement; but it will be a long time, indeed, before the nation can be regenerated, and even the king will soon find that, if he is to reign peaceably, he must not interfere too violently with methods that are so common that they have come to be accepted as inevitable, even by the people who suffer by them. "I can assure you that I, myself, have been many times approached by men who supply forage and other things to the regiment, and when I have indignantly refused to entertain any proposals whatever, they have not been at all abashed, but have said boldly that it was the general custom. I do not believe they thought any the better of me for refusing even to listen to their offers, but regarded me as a sort of Don Quixote, with ridiculously exaggerated ideas of honour." On the morning following his return to Badajos, Desmond started on his way to Madrid. Although this time he had no apprehension whatever of a planned attack, he thought it safer and better to travel north from Badajos, and skirt the foot of the sierras until he reached the banks of the Tagus, where there was a strong garrison in each of the towns, and the country was, in consequence, free from the incursions of bands from the hills. The journey passed without an incident, and on reaching Madrid and presenting his report, he received high commendation from the Duke of Orleans, and spent a long day with the general's staff, explaining his report, and going into details as to the nature of the roads, the repairs necessary, and the positions which were, in his opinion, most suitable for battle. On the following day, the members of the staff were all summoned to meet him by the Duke of Orleans, who informed them that he had received a sudden summons to return to Paris, and that Marshal de Bay would, in his absence, be in command of the French troops. The announcement came as a great surprise to Desmond, but was not unexpected by the other officers. During the winter, the King of France had been engaged in efforts to bring about a general peace, and had offered terms that showed he was ready to make any sacrifices to procure it. The allies, on the contrary, were bent upon continuing the war. The victory of Oudenarde, the capture of Lille, Namur, and other fortresses, opened the way to Paris, and knowing the general distress that prevailed in France, they raised their demands higher and higher, as they perceived the anxiety of Louis for peace. One of the obstacles to this was the situation in Spain, and it was reported that Louis was ready to yield on this point also, and not only to consent to the cession of the Spanish dominion in Spain, but to his grandson Philip surrendering the crown to the Archduke Charles; and that, ere long, the French troops would be withdrawn altogether. While, during the month that had elapsed since Desmond first left Madrid, these rumours had increased in strength, it was known that couriers were constantly passing to and fro, between Madrid and Versailles, with private communications between Louis and Philip; and there was great excitement, in Madrid, at the rumour of this desertion of their king by France. The rumours were indeed correct. The king had informed Philip that, great as was the affection he bore for him, the state of France, which was necessarily his chief care, would compel him, ere long, to recall his troops from Spain. Philip had entreated him not to desert him, and declared that, in any case, he would remain in Spain, confiding in the support of the people who had selected him as their monarch. At present, however, the communications were proceeding, and nothing definite had been arranged. The whole of the staff were to remain with Marshal de Bay, in the same position as they had held under the duke, and, except for the departure of the prince, matters went on as before.	{ "id": "18349" }
17	: An Old Friend.	The command had been effected so suddenly that Desmond had not been able to make up his mind to request the Duke of Orleans, to whom he had been attached personally, rather than to the French army in Spain, to allow him to return with him to France, in order that he might again join the Duke of Berwick. Before, however, he could decide whether to do so or not, the duke had taken his departure. Desmond spoke to the head of the staff, with whom he had been constantly thrown in contact before he left Madrid, and whilst explaining to him, on his return, the details of his report, asked him for his advice. "I should think you had better remain here, Captain Kennedy. There is likely to be a great battle fought, in a few weeks; but if the rumours we hear are correct, we may not be here very much longer. Certainly I hope there will be no change until then, for if we win the battle, and so relieve Spain from the risk of invasion for a time, we can leave the country with a better grace, as Philip would then only have to battle with his rebellious subjects in Catalonia." "I should certainly not wish to leave when a great battle is about to be fought," Desmond said, "and will, therefore, continue to serve under the Marshal de Bay until it is certain what is going to be done." In a short time a general movement of the troops, both Spanish and French, began. Desmond and the other aides-de-camp were actively employed in keeping up communication between the various columns, which were to assemble near Badajos. Moving forward at the same rate as the troops, the march was a pleasant one. It was April now, the country looked bright, and the heat was not too great for marching. The marshal had gone on with the greater portion of his staff, Desmond having been detailed to accompany the division from Toledo. When within two days' march of Badajos, an orderly brought a note from the marshal, requesting him to ride forward at once. This he did without loss of time. Marshal de Bay had taken up his quarters at Badajos, and on arriving in the town, Desmond alighted at the governor's house. "It was a stupid mistake of mine," the head of the staff said, "in sending you on detached duty. I forgot at the moment, when I nominated you, that your knowledge of the locality would be invaluable to us. I only thought of it yesterday when, on the marshal asking for some information on this matter, I pulled out your report. He examined it and said, 'This is very complete and valuable, Colonel. Whom is it made by?' " 'By an officer of your staff, sir, Captain Kennedy.' " 'Where is he?' " 'He is coming down with the Toledo column, sir.' " 'Please send for him at once,' he said. 'One of the others should have been detached for that service. He is just the man we want here.' "Accordingly we sent for you, and here you are." "This is an excellent report of yours, sir," the duke said, when the colonel introduced Desmond to him. "As we came down, I noticed that the roads had, in many cases, been thoroughly repaired at the points mentioned in your report as being particularly bad, and the bridges in many places greatly strengthened. Had it not been for that, I do not know how I should have got my guns along. "And now, sir, I want to ask you a few questions as to the road on the other side. By your report, I see that you consider the road through Campo Mayor to be the only one by which an army could move, and that a large body of workmen must be employed to make the other road fit for the passage of cannon." He then asked a number of questions concerning this road. "I see," he said, "you have marked several places, in your report, where an enemy coming down that road could post themselves strongly, and others which might be defended to advantage by us." "Yes, sir; but of course, the suitability of those places would depend largely upon the respective strength of the armies." The marshal nodded approvingly. "From all I hear from our agents in Lisbon," he said, "the enemy's forces will be superior to our own in numbers, but the main portion are Portuguese, who have shown very little fight, hitherto. Their cavalry are almost entirely Portuguese. The only really fighting portion of their forces are the English and Dutch, who are most formidable foes; but against these we have our French regiments, on whose bravery we can rely. Were it not that I think the Portuguese will probably, as at the battle of Almanza, fly as soon as the engagement begins, I should fall back and take up a strongly defensive position. As it is, in spite of their superior numbers, I think we can meet them on an equal field." The conversation lasted over an hour, and then Desmond retired, leaving Colonel Villeroy with the marshal. As he left the house, an officer standing at the door seized his hand. "My dear Kennedy," he said, "who would have thought that we should have met again here!" Desmond staggered back. He could not, for a moment, believe the evidence of his eyes and ears. "Why, O'Neil, I thought you were dead." "I am worth a good many dead men, yet," the other one laughed. "Let us go into this wine shop and crack a bottle. We can then talk over matters quietly." "And O'Sullivan, is he alive too?" Desmond asked. "No, poor fellow. He has never been heard of since that tremendous licking we got. There is not a shadow of hope." Then many questions were asked, on both sides; and when these were answered, Desmond said: "Now about yourself, O'Neil. I thought I was the only one that got through safe." "So you were, for the other three of us were all on our backs." "But we did not hear of you as among the prisoners, of whom a list was furnished by Marlborough." "No; the name of Patrick O'Neil did not appear. I was shot through the body, and during the night I lay insensible, but in the morning I opened my eyes and began to think. It seemed to me that the name was not one that would be likely to please. In the first place, because it was evident, by my age, that I was not one of the Limerick men; in the next place, because of that little matter of my escape from the jail in London. I had no fear of being shot. I should be a prisoner of war, but I should not be likely to be over kindly treated, and when they exchanged prisoners I should certainly not be one of those sent back. You see, what with Blenheim and Ramillies and Oudenarde, they had taken ten of our officers for every one of their officers captured by us, so I thought it best to pass as a French officer. "It was easy to do so, as my French was good enough to pass anywhere, and, you see, I had on a French staff uniform. Luckily my horse had been shot at the same time as I was. He was lying dead beside me, and within reach of my arm, so that I was able to lean over and get my flask from one of the holsters. I had a terrible thirst on me, and could have drunk a barrel. "As I heard no firing, I knew that the fighting was over; and in two or three hours a party came along with a stretcher, having a doctor with them. When he saw that my eyes were open, and that I was alive, he examined my wound and shook his head. " 'He is badly hit,' he said, 'but you may as well carry him in.' "So they took me into Oudenarde, which had been turned into a big hospital. " 'You are not to speak,' the doctor said to me, before they lifted me up. 'You must keep yourself perfectly quiet.' "When they got me into the hospital, they found a hole behind as well as in front, which I heard one of the doctors say was a good thing. They dressed the wounds and left me. I could see by their faces, the next time they came, that they were surprised to see me alive. One of them said to the other: "'The bullet must have passed through him without touching any vital point. He may do yet.' "He bent down, and asked me in French what my name was, and I said 'Victor Dubosc, lieutenant;' so they stuck a card with my name over my bed, and asked me no more questions. I lay there for six weeks, and then I was well enough to get up and walk about. "Three weeks later, I went down with some other convalescents to Ostend, and there we were embarked, and taken to Portsmouth. Then we were put in boats and rowed to Porchester, which is a place at the end of a sort of lake behind Portsmouth. There was an old castle there, with a mighty high wall, enclosing a lot of ground, where there were huts--rows of them--all filled with our prisoners. Some of the huts were a little better than others, and these were for the use of officers. A regiment of soldiers was in tents outside the walls, and a hundred men were always on guard with loaded muskets. "I said to myself, often and often, 'If Kennedy were here, he would soon hit upon some plan for getting away;' but for the life of me, I could not see how it was to be managed. It was a dull time, I can tell you. The food was bad, and the cooking was worse. Only a few officers were there, most of them being sent to some place a long distance inland; but, as we were all wounded, I suppose they thought that the loss of blood would keep us quiet. "One of the officers, having a little money hidden about him, bought a pack of cards from an English soldier, and we passed most of our time playing; but it was poor work, for we had nothing to play for. At last, I said to myself, 'Patrick O'Neil, there must be an end of this or your brain will go altogether. It is not worth much at the best of times, or it would have thought of some plan for getting out of this place before now.' "At last, I hit on a plan. It was a dangerous one, there was no doubt of that; but as I was desperate, I did not think much of the danger. The worst they could do was to shoot me, which I suppose is what they would have done. My idea was to pounce suddenly on one of the sentries, who kept guard all night; to gag him, and tie him up, before he could give the alarm; and then to dress up in his clothes, and take his matchlock. "But the difficulty was, what was I to do next. The soldiers came on duty for twelve hours, coming in at six in the morning and going out at six in the evening. "It was clear to me that it could only be done in the dark, and I had to wait for nearly two months. It was the beginning of October before it was dark enough, at six in the morning, for me to fall in with the others and march out without being noticed. "At last, the time came. I stole out of my hut an hour before the change would be made, and crept along quietly, till I heard a sentry marching up and down between our huts and those of the soldiers. I had torn up a blanket into strips, and twisted them together to make ropes; and with these in one hand, and a big piece ready to shove into his mouth in the other, I stole up close to him; and when he turned his back to me, I jumped upon him. Luckily, instead of carrying the musket on his shoulder, he had it under his arm, so that I was able to seize the lock with one hand, and clutch him by the throat with the other. I gripped pretty hard, and the man, in half a minute, slipped down to the ground. "Before he could recover, I had stripped off his coatee and cloak; then I tied his hands and feet, fastened the gag firmly in his mouth, and dragged him in between two huts, where he would not be found till morning. Then I took off my own coat and threw it over him, for the night was chilly, and put on his cloak and shako, and took his place. "In half an hour I heard a tramp of men, and knew the relief had entered. Then there was a bugle call, and two or three sentries passed towards the entrance. I ran on, too. When they fell in, I managed to get in the last section. Some sergeants ran down the line counting the men, and reported that all were present. The gates were opened, and we marched out. "As soon as we got among the tents, we fell out, and I had no difficulty whatever in getting off without being observed. Leaving my musket and shako behind me, I went up a long lane which brought me on to the main road, crossed that, climbed a hill beyond, and came down into a wooded country. "At the first cottage I came to, I stopped. A man and woman came out on my knocking. They looked kindly and good tempered, and I told them a pitiful story, about how I had been unjustly accused of striking an officer, and had been sentenced to two hundred lashes; and that I had managed, in the night, to cut a slit in the back of the guard tent and escape. "As I had been walking along, a sudden thought had struck me. At Oudenarde, I was wearing the same boots I had worn when we were captured together. When we took the money out, we each left, if you remember, five pieces of gold in one of our boots, which I had never thought of till that day; and, as I came along, I opened the sole and took them out. It was a perfect godsend, as you may guess. "The man and his wife expressed such sympathy that I did not hesitate to say: 'I want to get rid of my coatee, and of this cloak. The coatee would be of no use to you, and you had best burn it, but the cloak, if you alter it, might be useful; or, if you cut it up, will make a cover for your bed. I will give you that and a gold piece--it is a French one I got in the wars, but you can change it easily enough, when you go into the town marketing--if you will give me a suit of your clothes.' "This the man readily consented to do, and the woman set before me a large bowl of milk, and some bread, which I ate as soon as I had put on a pair of breeches, smock, and broad hat. Now I felt perfectly safe. They might send news all over the country of the escape of a French officer, but as I had never spoken a word of English, from the time that I was taken, no one would suspect a countryman speaking English to be the man whom they were in search of. "After leaving the cottage, I travelled quietly to Rye. I thought it best to go there, for it was likely that it would be difficult, elsewhere, for an unknown man to get a passage to France, and it struck me that the man who took us across before, would carry me over the first time he was going with despatches. I found him easily enough, and though I was not dressed quite in the same way as I was when we called on him before, he recognized me at once. " 'Another job for me?' he asked. " 'Not a special one,' I said. 'I am going across again, but there is no occasion for you to make a special trip, and indeed my employer forgot to give me an order upon you. I should have gone back, if I had remembered it, but I thought you would not mind giving me a passage the next time you sailed across.' "As the man remembered that we had made ourselves pleasant on board, he agreed at once to take me, next time the boat should be going. I laid out a pound in getting a coat more suitable for travelling in France than the peasant's smock. Then I took a lodging in a small inn. "Three days later, a messenger came down with an order for the man to take him across at once, and as the captain charged me nothing for my passage, I had enough left to pay for my place in a diligence, and on arriving in Paris duly reported myself, at the barracks, as having returned. "My first enquiry, of course, was about you and O'Sullivan. I found that he had never been heard of, but that you had lost a hand, and had been promoted to a captaincy; had been very ill, and had gone to the south of France on sick leave. "After I heard that, I remained for two or three months at the depot, and then learned that the Duke of Berwick had just arrived from Dauphiny. I at once went to see him. He told me he could not put me on his staff again, as his numbers were complete, but would give me a letter to the Duke of Orleans, asking him to employ me in that capacity. When I got down here, I found that the duke had left, and that the Marshal de Bay was in command. "On reading Berwick's letter, he at once appointed me one of his aides-de-camp. You were away, I found to my great disappointment, and I was sent off into Catalonia, with orders for four battalions to be sent at once to Badajos. I arrived here yesterday, in time for the shindy." "Fortunately, O'Neil, I do not think there is much fear of another Oudenarde. There is no royal duke here, to interfere with our general; and the Portuguese are not to be compared with the Hanoverians, and Dutch, and the other allies that fought against us there." "I hear, from the others, that you have been occupied in reconnoitring the country." "Yes, and I was captured, but was fortunately able to give them the slip." Desmond did not care to tell even his friend that his escape was due to the kindness of the British general. The next morning, Desmond was sent off to hurry up a body of troops which was still some seven or eight marches away. The news had come that the allied army was in motion, and would probably concentrate near Portalegre. This seemed to show that they intended to invade Spain by Badajos, and the valley of the Guadiana; for, had their aim been to advance up the valley of the Tagus, to Madrid, they would have marched towards Montalvao, and so on by Alcantara to Almarez. After two days' hard riding he met the column, which, on receiving the order from the marshal to hasten forward with all speed, performed double marches until they arrived at Badajos. Desmond found that the allies had not wasted their time, and that their advance guard was already at Campo Mayor. The Spanish army were posted on the Caya river, a stream that flowed down from the sierra, and fell into the Guadiana at Badajos. Their position was a defensive one. The army of the allies was known to be some twenty-two thousand strong, of whom some five thousand were cavalry. The Spanish had about the same strength of cavalry, but were inferior in infantry. The number of guns also was about equal, both sides having about forty cannon. On the 7th of May, the two armies faced each other on opposite sides of the river Caya. As neither party made any movement of advance, Marshal de Bay determined to force on an engagement, and sent orders to the cavalry to cross the river, and to place themselves on the road between the enemy and Campo Mayor. The allies suffered, as the French had done at Oudenarde, by conflicting counsels. The Earl of Galway was in command of the British, and of two or three Dutch regiments. The Marquis de Frontiera was in command of the Portuguese, who formed by far the greater portion of the force, and, as soon as the movement was seen on the other side of the river, he determined to cross and attack the Spaniards. The Earl of Galway was strongly of opinion that it would not be wise to take the offensive, but that the army should remain in its present position, until the intentions of the enemy were clearly ascertained. Their cavalry, he urged, could do little by themselves, and it was evident that the infantry could not be attacked while they remained under the shelter of the guns of the fortress. The Marquis de Frontiera, however, and the other Portuguese generals, were unanimous in insisting that battle should be given at once, and the former gave orders for the Portuguese cavalry, with a body of foot and five field pieces, to march immediately. Seeing that, if unsupported, this force must meet with disaster, the Earl of Galway reluctantly ordered the troops under his command to advance. The river was fordable, and they met with no opposition, until they crossed it and formed up in order of battle. The Portuguese horse were now divided on each wing, the British were in the centre; a portion of the Portuguese infantry were on either flank, the rest were in the rear. "Captain Kennedy, you will carry my orders at once, to our cavalry, to charge the Portuguese horse on the right wing." Desmond saluted, and was about to ride off, when he paused a moment and asked: "May I charge with Brigadier Crofton's dragoons, sir?" The marshal nodded, and Desmond galloped off. Crofton was in command of the first line of cavalry. His own regiment, which was composed partly of Irishmen and partly of Spaniards, was in the centre of the line. After delivering his orders to the general commanding the cavalry, Desmond rode on to Crofton. "The cavalry are going to charge, sir," he said, "and I have permission to ride with you." Crofton waited until the order from the general arrived, and then, drawing his sword, shouted, "The first brigade will charge," and, riding forward, led the way against the Portuguese horse, whose cannon had already opened fire. The Portuguese fell into disorder as soon as they saw the long line of horsemen charging down on them like a torrent, and when it neared them broke and fled. They were soon overtaken, great numbers were cut down, and the remainder galloped off, a panic-stricken mob, and did not draw rein until they reached Campo Mayor. The Spaniards at once turned the five cannon the fugitives had left behind them upon the allied infantry, and then, after a few rounds had been fired, the cavalry charged the British infantry. But they had now foes of a different metal to reckon with, and although, three times, the horsemen reformed their ranks and hurled themselves against the infantry, they were each time repulsed with heavy loss. Then, swerving round, they fell on the Portuguese infantry in the second line, whom they dispersed as easily as they had defeated the cavalry. The Earl of Galway now brought up the brigade of Brigadier General Pierce, which consisted of the two British regiments of Barrimore and Stanwix, and a Spanish regiment which had been recently raised and named after himself. These charged the enemy with great bravery, drove back their infantry for some distance, recovered the five guns the cavalry had lost, and, still pressing forward, fought their way deep into the centre of the Spanish ranks. Had they been supported by the Portuguese infantry, on their flank, the battle might still have been won. But the latter, in spite of the persuasions and orders of their officers, refused to advance, and, turning their backs, made off in confusion, although not yet attacked by the enemy. Orders were then sent to the Portuguese horse on the left to charge to the assistance of Pierce's brigade. But instead of doing this, they also galloped off the field, and after defending themselves with desperate valour for some time, the little brigade, being unsupported, and being surrounded by the whole strength of the Spaniards, was forced to surrender. In the meantime the Earl of Galway, seeing that the battle was lost, through the cowardice of the Portuguese, was preparing to withdraw his men, and had only despatched Pierce's brigade to check the advance of the enemy while he did so. Seeing that these, by their ardour, were irretrievably cut off, he gave the order to the Marquis Montandre to draw off the British infantry, who alone remained firm, and against whom the whole of the French and Spanish forces now advanced; while he himself with a small body of cavalry, charged into the midst of the enemy in hopes of reaching Pierce's brigade and drawing it off. Although weakened by the loss of that brigade, attacked on both flanks as well as in front, and frequently charged by the Spanish horse, among which Crofton's dragoons were conspicuous for their bravery, the retreating British maintained admirable order. Occasionally, when severely pressed, they charged the enemy and beat them back; till they were able to withdraw from the field with comparatively trifling loss, thus saving the flying Portuguese from annihilation. As at Almanza, the whole of the fighting, and almost all the loss, fell upon the English, although a considerable number of the Portuguese were cut down in their flight, before the Spanish cavalry returned to join in the attack on the retiring English. The allies had, altogether, seventeen hundred men killed or wounded, and two thousand three hundred taken prisoners, of whom fifteen hundred were Pierce's brigade; and eight hundred Portuguese, who were cut off by the cavalry. Among the prisoners were the Earl of Barrimore, all the officers of Pierce's brigade, Lord Pawlet, one of the earl's aides-de-camp, two of his pages, and his master of horse. After the battle was over, and Desmond had rejoined the marshal, he was sent to ride over the field, and ascertain who had fallen and what prisoners had been taken. Night was already coming on, and, after fulfilling his mission as far as was possible in the confusion, he came upon two Spanish soldiers, with a prisoner. "Whom have you there?" he asked, in Spanish. "I don't know, sir. We found him lying under his horse, which, in its fall, had so pinned down his leg that he could not escape. Several others had fallen round him, and it was only when we heard a cry for help that we turned the dead horse over, and found him under it, and then got him out." Standing close, there was light enough for Desmond to distinguish the prisoner's features. He gave a slight start of surprise, then he said: "You have done well, my men. Here is a doubloon, to get some drink with your comrades when you get into the town. I will look after the prisoner." The men saluted and went off, well pleased to have got rid of the trouble of marching their prisoner into the town. Mike, rather surprised, moved up to take charge of the captive. "My lord," Desmond said, "I will now endeavour to repay the kindness you showed me. "Do you see that little hut, Mike, just at the edge of those trees? You must hide the earl there. Our cavalry are still all over the country, hunting down fugitives." The earl, who was scarcely able to walk, his leg having been injured by the weight of the horse upon it, murmured his thanks, but did not speak again until they had entered the shed, when Desmond said: "Now, General, I will first cut down your riding boot, to ease your leg. Then, if you will lie down in that corner, we will pile this firewood over you. It will not be safe for you to attempt to go forward for two or three hours yet. I have a report to make to Marshal de Bay. When I have handed it in, I will return at once. "Mike, do you stay near the hut, and if any searching party should come along, which is scarcely likely, for they have all gone farther afield, you can say there is no need to search the hut, as you, with an officer, have already examined it." In a few minutes, the earl was completely hidden. Desmond then rode into Badajos, and delivered his report to the marshal. He then went to the stables, took out his spare horse, and, leading it, rode out to the hut again. "Has anyone been here?" he asked Mike. "Not a soul, sir." "Take the horses into the wood, then, and stay with them for the present. It will not be safe for the earl to move for a couple of hours. "Now, General," he went on, as he removed the firewood, "I fear that you have been very uncomfortable." "I can hardly say that I have been comfortable, sir, but that is of no consequence. The pain in my leg has abated, since you cut the boot open. "And now, how can I express my gratitude to you, for thus sheltering me?" "It is but a fair return of services, sir. You gave me my liberty, and I am doing my best to restore yours to you." "It is all very well to say that, Captain Kennedy. I am the general in command of the British forces in Portugal, and had I chosen to openly release you, none could have questioned me. It was only because some magnified report of the affair might have reached the ears of the Portuguese Government, and given rise to rumours hostile to me, that I thought it best to let it appear to be an accidental escape. You see, I am by no means popular with the Portuguese. In the first place, I am a Protestant; and in the next place, I am constantly bringing pressure to bear upon them, as to the supply of provisions, the making of roads, the proper feeding and arming of their own troops, and other matters of the same kind; and they would be only too glad to have some cause of complaint against me. "But your case is altogether different, for you are risking even your life in thus aiding me to escape." "That may be, General, but it was nevertheless my duty, as a matter of conscience, to endeavour to return the kindness that you showed me; and as, at present, your army will hardly be in a state to take the field against us for a long time, I do not feel that I am seriously injuring our cause." "Well, sir, I shall be your debtor for life. "Do you intend to remain always an exile, Captain Kennedy?" the Earl of Galway went on. "It seems to me little short of madness that so many gallant gentlemen should cut themselves altogether adrift from their native country, and pass their lives fighting as mercenaries. I do not use the word offensively, but only in its proper meaning, of foreigners serving in the army of a nation not their own. Nor do I mean to insult Irish gentlemen, by even hinting that they serve simply for pay. They fight for France mainly in the hope that France will some day aid in setting James Stuart on the British throne; a forlorn hope, for although Louis may encourage the hopes of the Stuarts and their followers, by patronizing their cause, which it suits him to do because it gives him the means of striking at England, by effecting a landing in Scotland or Ireland; it is yet a matter upon which he must be indifferent, save in his own interest, and in the advantage it gives him of keeping in his service some dozen or so splendid regiments, on whose valour he can always rely." "That is true, sir," Desmond replied; "and I own I have no great hope that, by the means of French assistance, the Stuarts will regain their throne. But what could I do if I were to return to Ireland? Beyond the fact that my name is Kennedy, I am in absolute ignorance as to what branch of that family I belong to, and have practically not a friend in the country. Were I to land in Ireland, I have no means of earning my living, and should doubtless be denounced as one who had served in the Irish Brigade. I own that I should be glad to return there, for a time, in order to make enquiries as to my family. I was but sixteen when I left, and was kept, as it seems to me, purposely, in total ignorance on the subject. It may be that I was the son of a brave officer of that name, who certainly came over to France soon after I was born, and fell fighting some years before I came out; but I have no proof that it was so, and would give a great deal to be able to ascertain it. "In Ireland they think a great deal of genealogy, and I am often questioned, by Irishmen of old descent, as to my family; and find it extremely awkward to be obliged to own that I know nothing of it, with any certainty. I have no desire to pass my life in battles and sieges, and, if I survive the risks and perils, to settle down as a Frenchman with an Irish name." "That I can well understand," the earl said. " 'Tis a life that no man could desire, for it would certainly be a wasted one. I can assure you that I think the chance of James Stuart, or his descendants, gaining the throne of England is remote in the extreme. When William of Orange came over, there was no standing army, and as James the Second had rendered himself extremely unpopular by his Catholic leanings, he became possessed of England without opposition, and of Ireland by means of his Dutch troops. The matter is entirely changed, now. England has a strong army, against which a gathering, however strong, of undisciplined men could have but little chance. I conceive it possible that a Catholic Stuart might regain the throne of Ireland, if backed by a French army, and if the people were supplied with French arms and money. But that he would retain the throne, after the French were withdrawn, I regard as next to impossible." "I cannot but think the same, sir. However, as I see no chance of my being able to go to Ireland, even to push my enquiries as to my family, there is nothing for it but to remain a soldier of France." "In that matter, I might assist you, Captain Kennedy. I have no doubt that my influence, and that of my friends in England, would without difficulty suffice to gain permission for you to visit Ireland on private business, on my undertaking that you have no political object whatever in desiring to do so, and that you engage yourself to enter into no plots or schemes for a rising. Furthermore, I think I can promise that, if you succeed in your researches, and find that you have relations and friends there, I could, if you desire it, obtain a revocation of any pains and penalties you may have incurred, and a restoration of all your rights as an Irishman. That is certainly the least I can do, after the vital service that you have rendered me--a service that, in itself, shows you do not share in the bitter enmity so many of your countrymen, unfortunately, feel against England." "I have no such enmity, assuredly," Desmond said. "The choice of coming out here, to enter the service of France, was not of my own making; but was made, for some reason which I have never been able to understand, by the gentleman who had borne the expenses of my bringing up, but who was himself a strong supporter of the English rule, and therefore would have been expected to place every obstacle in the way of my entering the Irish Brigade."	{ "id": "18349" }
18	: War.	After hearing Desmond's story the earl asked several questions, and obtained further details of his life when a boy, and of his interview with John O'Carroll. "It is certainly strange," he said thoughtfully, "and worth enquiring into, for it would seem that he must have some interest in thus getting you out of the way, and in your entering a service that would render it next to impossible that you should ever return to your native land." "I don't see any possible interest that he could have had in that, sir; but, certainly, I have never been able to account for his conduct." "It is clear that there is some mystery about it," the earl said warmly, "and were I you, I should certainly take leave of absence, for a time, and go over and get to the bottom of the matter. At any rate, I will at once write to London and obtain a safe conduct for you. This you can use, or not, as you may decide, and can then, if you so please, return and continue your service here. "Methinks that the war will not last very much longer. France is impoverished, the disasters which have befallen her arms in Flanders have rendered the war unpopular, and in England, in spite of the success gained by their arms, the heavy taxation is making men ask why a war should be continued which may benefit Holland, and the German allies, but can result in no good to England. "And now, Captain Kennedy, I will be making my way to join the remains of my army. I thank you again, most heartily, for your generous conduct; and, believe me, you may always command my services in any direction. I only regret that these unhappy political difficulties should drive you, and so many of your brave countrymen, into the service of a power that has always been, and so far as I can see is likely to remain, an enemy of England." "I may say, sir, that Lord Godolphin has, for a certain reason, promised to befriend me; and that, if you write to him on the subject of a safe conduct, I think I could rely upon his taking a favourable view of the matter." "I will do so, certainly," the earl said. "His power is great. If he is favourably disposed towards you, you may consider the matter as done." They chatted for some time longer, and then Desmond said: "I think now, sir, that it would be safe to move. Everything is perfectly quiet without, and I have no doubt that, by this time, the cavalry have all returned to Badajos. However, I will accompany you for a short distance, for you may be stopped by some of our advance posts. You had best take the cloak and hat of my follower, and, as I am well known, no questions will then be asked." "By the way," Lord Galway added as, Mike having brought up the horses, he mounted; "where shall I send a letter to you, with your safe conduct? We are in communication with many persons at Madrid, and can pass a letter through the lines at any time." "When there, I lodge at the house of Don Pedro Sarasta, in the Calle del Retiro. I will request him to forward any letters to me, should I be absent." The earl made a note of the address in his pocketbook, and then, putting on Mike's cloak and hat, started with Desmond, who passed him without question through the lines of outposts; which were indeed but carelessly kept, as it was certain that, after the signal victory that had been gained, it would be a long time before any enemy would venture to attack them. Two days after the fight, the Marquis de Bay moved forward with his army, with the intention of fighting another battle; but Galway and Frontiera had, by this time, reorganized their forces, and occupied so strong a position, near Elvas, that he could not venture to attack them. However, he occupied the country for a considerable distance beyond the frontier, subsisting his army upon the provisions and forage collected by his cavalry in the villages and small towns. As it was evident that, after the proof given of the inability of the Portuguese to withstand any attack, there was no probability of offensive operations being renewed by the allies; and, the heat becoming intense, the force was withdrawn across the frontier and went into quarters, the general returning to Madrid, where he received an enthusiastic welcome from the inhabitants. By this time, however, the knowledge that the king of France was entering into negotiations, which would necessitate his desertion of Spain, greatly excited the population against the French stationed in the capital. They were hissed and hooted when they appeared in the streets, and for a time, the indignation was so great that the troops were ordered to remain in their barracks. The king himself, however, gained rather than lost popularity, as he issued a proclamation to the people, saying that, having accepted their invitation to be their king, he would remain with them until driven from his throne by force; and he confided absolutely in their affection, and aid, to enable him to withstand any foes who might attempt to dethrone him. In the autumn another change occurred. Although, in order to obtain peace, he had granted all the demands, however exorbitant, of the allies, and had undertaken to withdraw his troops from Spain, Louis stood firm when to these conditions they added another, namely, that he should himself undertake, by force, to dethrone his grandson. This monstrous demand united, at once, both those who wished to continue the war rather than grant such humiliating terms as those which had been insisted upon, and the party who were in favour of peace, even at that cost. The negotiations were abruptly broken off, and the French troops, who were already on the march towards the frontier, received orders to remain in Spain. Now that he had O'Neil with him, the time in Madrid passed more pleasantly for Desmond than before. He was frequently away for several days, carrying despatches to the commanders of the forces in Valencia and Barcelona. In the capital the French were again regarded as friends, and as several successes had been gained and places captured, in Catalonia, the hope that the civil war that had so long been waged was approaching its end, and the confidence engendered by the victory on the Caya, made the people doubt whether any attempt at invasion from the west would be contemplated, and they gave themselves up to gaiety. Balls and fetes were frequently organized, and at these the French were among the most honoured guests. Early in the spring preparations were made for active operations. Lieutenant General O'Mahony had just returned from Sicily, where he had rendered distinguished service. In the previous year, Crofton had been made a major general, and two new regiments of Irish infantry had been formed, of deserters from the enemy in Catalonia and Portugal. These were commanded by Colonel Dermond M'Auliffe and Colonel John Comerford. These two regiments, with another under Colonel Macdonald, marched from Madrid in April. As the Marquis de Bay was not yet moving he offered O'Mahony, who had the command of the force, the services of Desmond and O'Neil as aides-de-camp. The offer was a welcome one, for, as none of the men in the newly raised regiments was acquainted with the language, Desmond, who now spoke Spanish well, would be far more valuable to him than Spanish officers could be. For two months the little force moved about in Catalonia, the rapidity of its marches baffling the attempts of the archduke's forces to interfere with its operations. These were principally directed against various small fortresses, held by partisans of Charles. Several of these were captured, thus clearing the roads they guarded, and opening the country for the more important operations that Philip himself was about to undertake. It was not until July that the royal army approached Lerida, where O'Mahony's force joined it. General Stanhope marched, with the troops under his command, and encamped at Balaguer; where he was joined by Baron de Wetzel, with some troops which had been brought from Italy. As Stanhope's force was insufficient to give battle until joined by the main army of Charles, he marched, on the 31st of July, headed by two English and two Dutch regiments of dragoons, to secure the passes near Alfaro, and so check the advance of the Spaniards. After performing a long and difficult march, they took up a defensive position. Stanhope found, however, that the river in front of him was so low that cavalry and artillery could pass easily, and even infantry could cross without difficulty. Scarcely had he taken up his position when two brigades of infantry and nineteen squadrons of cavalry were seen approaching, having been detached from the Spanish army to occupy the position which had been secured by the rapidity of Stanhope's march. They therefore waited for their main army to come up, but before it did so, the whole of Stanhope's force had arrived, and was prepared for battle. Although it was past six o'clock in the evening, Charles, on his arrival, decided to fall upon the enemy before they could encamp, which they might do in a position in which it would be difficult to attack them. Fourteen cannon at once opened fire from an eminence, whence they commanded the position taken up by the advance force of the Spaniards. This position was on low ground in front of the ridge upon which the village of Almenara stood, and nothing could be seen of the force that lay behind this ridge. The advanced force of Spaniards ascended this ridge, as soon as the artillery opened upon them, and General Stanhope obtained leave from Marshal Staremberg, who commanded the archduke's army, to charge them. With ten squadrons of horse he rode up the ascent, and there, when he gained it, saw to his surprise twenty-two squadrons facing him, flanked with infantry, and supported with another line of cavalry equally strong. He sent back at once for fourteen squadrons from his second line, and when six of these came up he advanced against the Spaniards, who at the same time moved forward to meet him. The cavalry on Philip's left at once gave way. The centre and right, aided by the fire of the infantry, made a stout fight, but were driven back by the English and Dutch cavalry. The fighting was severe, for of the six English squadrons who charged, two hundred men and twenty-one officers were killed or wounded. Philip's second line of cavalry gave but feeble support, and Stanhope's horse soon had them all in confusion, and, driving them from the field, pursued them hotly. The fugitives dashed into their own infantry, who were just arriving in force, and their panic communicated itself to them, and a total rout took place. The pursuit was kept up until it was so dark that the troopers were unable to see each other's faces, and they then halted, having defeated the Spanish without the aid of their infantry, which had not come up in time to take any part in the fight. Much of the baggage, together with tents, many cannon, and a quantity of ammunition, fell into the hands of the victors. Owing to the darkness, the number of prisoners taken was small. O'Mahony and his troops had taken no part in the engagement, as, having arrived late on the previous evening after a long march, they were still at Lerida. It had not been deemed necessary to hurry them forward, as no battle was expected to take place for some days--as, indeed, would have been the case had the force sent forward arrived at the river before Stanhope. The routed troops arrived under the shelter of the guns of Lerida. Charles did not attack them there, but, making a detour, seized several places in Aragon, with the intention of cutting the line by which Philip would probably retire, and forcing him to fight again. Philip, however, on his part, marched from Lerida in order to retire into Castile by way of Saragossa. Charles followed hotly, and a portion of his cavalry came up to the rear of the enemy in the defile of Penalva. Here the Spaniards posted a strong force of grenadiers, and the defile being too narrow for the cavalry to act, these dismounted, and a hot fight took place, in which both parties claimed the victory. However, Philip retired the same day in great haste. Charles, arriving three hours later, ate the dinner that had been prepared for his rival. The Spaniards, covered by the defence of the pass, crossed the Ebro and posted themselves in a strong position within a mile of Saragossa. On the 21st of August Marshal Staremberg, with his generals, having reconnoitred their position, gave orders for the attack to take place the next morning, and at daybreak the cannon on both sides opened fire. General Stanhope, who commanded on the left wing, found that the enemy had the greater part of their cavalry facing him, and therefore strengthened his force by four battalions of foot and six squadrons of Portuguese horse. The Spanish line ran obliquely, from the river on their left to a steep hill on their right, occupied by their cavalry and a battery of artillery. These, therefore, were much nearer to the attacking force than were those on the plain. The battle began at twelve o'clock, Charles's force marching in two lines, with the exception of Stanhope's cavalry and infantry. These, from their situation, were the first to come in contact with the enemy. The four battalions first pushed forward up the hill, and, driving the Spanish cavalry back, allowed Stanhope's horse to ascend the hill and form on its crest. The battle speedily ranged along the whole line. The Spaniards, with superior numbers, gained ground on their left. Here O'Mahony's corps were stationed, and they drove a portion of the allies across the Ebro again; but this success was more than counterbalanced on the other flank, where Stanhope's cavalry and infantry carried all before them. The latter, posted in a hollow, opened so heavy a fire upon the Spanish infantry, as they advanced, that they fell into disorder; and as their cavalry were driven off, hotly pursued by Stanhope, they fell back upon the centre, which they threw into disorder. Seeing that the battle was lost, the Marquis de Bay gave the order to retire. Two hours after the first shot was fired, the rout of the Spanish centre and right was complete, but a considerable portion of the troops were rallied by de Bay at Alagon, three leagues above Saragossa. The left wing, under Generals Amezaga and O'Mahony, were checked in their course of victory by the disaster which befell the centre and right; but, maintaining their discipline, they fell back in good order, and rejoined their defeated comrades at Alagon. All the cannon and most of the colours of the regiments forming the centre and right fell into the hands of the victors. The loss of the allies was about two thousand men, killed or wounded; and that of the Spaniards and French three thousand killed and wounded, and between five and six thousand prisoners. Philip rode at once to Madrid, and on the evening of the battle the archduke entered Saragossa; while de Bay retired, with the broken remains of his troops, towards Navarre. Desmond and O'Neil, who had ridden behind O'Mahony, saw the Spanish troops of the archduke yield before the impetuous attacks of the Irish regiments, who, as they pressed their foes backwards, burst into loud cheering, believing the victory already won. Presently, O'Mahony stopped the advance. "We must not push too far forward," he said. "It seems to me that things are not going so well in other directions. Our centre is being pressed back. What is going on on the right I cannot say, but the enemy seems to have gained the top of the hill, for our cannon there are silent. If the centre is driven back, those we have now beaten will rally, and we shall be taken in flank by the fire of their centre. Therefore, let us be content with what we have done, and wait and see how things turn out elsewhere." Even before the rout of the Spanish right, their centre was yielding, for opposed to them were the British and Dutch regiments, whose attack they were altogether unable to withstand. It soon became clear that, at all other points on the field, the battle was going against the Spaniards, and an aide-de-camp presently rode up, hastily, with orders from Marshal de Bay for his left to fall back and retire to Alagon. Deep was the rage and disappointment among the troops of O'Mahony and Amezaga, as they faced about and set out on their march. They were unmolested. The troops they had beaten were in no disposition to follow them, while the allied cavalry and the infantry of their centre were in full pursuit of the rest of Philip's army, the remnants of which the little force joined, at Alagon, before nightfall. It was some days before the archduke's army moved forward again. The troops were exhausted by the long marches they had made, and there was a difference of opinion among the generals as to the course that had best be followed. The king wished to pursue the beaten enemy and, if possible, to intercept their march towards France, but Count Staremberg and Stanhope were of opinion that they should first occupy Madrid, and then march into Navarre, so as to bar the advance of fresh French troops into Spain, and at the same time open communications by sea with England, whence they could be supplied with reinforcements and stores of provisions. Finally, Charles gave way, and the allies marched towards Madrid. The main portion of the army halted at Alcala, a day's march from the capital, and General Stanhope marched on with his division to Madrid, which opened its gates without resistance, Philip having retired with his army. Charles entered the city on the 28th of September, 1710. The alarm, in France, at the news of the defeat at Saragossa was great, and Louis at once despatched the Duke of Vendome to command there. The latter, travelling fast, and gathering up the garrisons of the towns through which he passed, crossed the frontier at nearly the same time as Charles entered Madrid, and effected a junction with de Bay's army; which had, by this time, been increased by some fourteen thousand men, drawn from the garrisons of towns in Navarre, Castile, Galicia, and Valencia. Vendome had no doubt that the intention of the allies, in marching upon Madrid, was to open communication with the Portuguese, and determined to throw himself between the capital and the frontier. Marching with all speed, he encamped near Salamanca on the 6th of October, and thence moved to Plasencia, thereby securing the bridge of Almarez, and preventing the Portuguese from joining Charles. Had it not been for the usual indecision and want of energy on the part of the Portuguese Government, the junction might have been effected before Vendome arrived at Plasencia, for both Charles and Stanhope had, after the victory of Saragossa, written urgently, begging that the Portuguese army should at once advance and join them at Madrid; and that, at any rate, if the whole army could not move, at least the troops in the pay of England should push forward instantly. Stanhope, indeed had marched with his division to the bridge of Almarez to facilitate the junction, and had defeated a Spanish force guarding the bridge. However, the Portuguese did not arrive; and when a messenger brought the alarming news that a Spanish and French army had occupied Plasencia, Stanhope fell back towards Madrid. As large French reinforcements were known to be approaching the frontier, and Philip's army was already much superior in numbers to that of the allies, it was decided, in a council of war, to evacuate Madrid. The forces which had occupied Toledo and other towns were recalled, and, early in December, the army left the capital; the archduke riding at once to Barcelona, while the army, of which Stanhope's division formed the rear guard, followed in the same direction. The movement had been delayed too long. Vendome and Philip were already at hand, and on the 9th fell upon Stanhope's division at Brihuega. This force, consisting of eight English battalions and the same number of Portuguese horse, defended themselves desperately, and although the town was wholly without fortifications, they repulsed every attack until their ammunition was exhausted, and they were then forced to surrender. Staremberg, on hearing that Stanhope was attacked and surrounded, turned back and marched with all speed to relieve him, but on arriving within three hours' march of the town, heard that he had surrendered. The Duke of Vendome, hearing of his coming, drew his troops out and formed them in line of battle, and the next morning attacked him vigorously. The allied right held their ground, but the left fled, and Vendome swept his right round and took the centre and right of the allies in the rear. Three battalions of the second line, however, fell in turn upon the French rear and repulsed them, and the left wing, rallying again, renewed the battle. The combat was indecisive, both parties claiming the victory. Staremberg wrote to Charles that he had captured all the enemy's guns, and had killed six thousand of them; while the French claimed that they had totally defeated the allies, and captured all their cannon, killed four thousand, and taken nine thousand prisoners. The balance of probability lies to some extent with the French, for the day after the battle, Staremberg retired and marched to Barcelona; but the fact that he was not at once pursued shows that the French and Spaniards must have suffered very heavily. Desmond had passed unscathed through the battle of Saragossa. O'Neil had been severely wounded, but had managed to sit his horse until the division effected its junction with the Marquis de Bay's shattered forces. Great was the wrath among the two Irish regiments at the issue of the battle. "What is the use," an officer said to Desmond, "of our throwing away our lives, fighting for these Spaniards, when they themselves are useless, save when they meet the Portuguese, who are still more contemptible? Here have we, on level ground, fairly beaten the enemy, while the right and centre, although having a great advantage in position, allow themselves to be scattered like a flock of sheep." "They had stouter foes to meet than we had," Desmond said. "We had only Spaniards opposed to us, while they had English and Dutch to fight; and as the best French troops have found, in Flanders, that these were at least a match for them, we must not blame the Spanish too severely for giving way before they were attacked." "There is something in that, I admit, Kennedy. It seems to me that, in this war, it would be much better if the Spaniards and Portuguese had both remained at home, and allowed the French and us fight it out with the English and Dutch. The battles would have been small, but at least they would have been desperately fought." "But it would be absurd, Moore, for us to lay down our lives in a struggle in which those principally concerned took no part whatever, and which was of no great interest either to us or to the English. After the way in which Louis was ready to throw over Spain and Philip at the beginning of the year, the Spanish alliance can be of no great advantage to him, and I do not think that even Philip's orders would induce a Spanish army to march across the frontier to assist France. Therefore, as Louis can gain nothing by the Spanish alliance, why should he weaken himself by sending forces here to maintain Philip on the throne?" "But with the Archduke Charles here, he would have an enemy on his frontier. Philip might not assist him, but Charles would be actively hostile. The English and Dutch troops would be pouring into the peninsula, and we should have another Flanders in the south of France." "Well," Desmond said, after a pause; "the best way I can see out of it is for both Philip and Charles to withdraw, and allow the Spanish to elect a Spaniard for their king; or, if they could not agree to that, which I don't suppose they could do, choose some foreign prince belonging to a petty state which stands altogether aloof from European affairs, and seat him on the throne. If, again, they would not accept him, England and France should mutually agree not to interfere in the affair, and let the Spaniards indulge in civil war as long as it pleases them." Moore laughed. "It might be a good solution, Kennedy, but there is no more chance of Philip or Charles renouncing their pretensions, or indeed of the French on one side and the allies on the other permitting them to do so, than there is of the world becoming an utopia, where war shall be unknown, and all peoples live together in peace and amity." "Well," Desmond said, "for my part, I am sick of fighting in quarrels that do not concern me, and when this campaign comes to an end I shall, if possible, rejoin Berwick. The cause of the Stuarts is not advanced, in the slightest, by what is taking place in Spain, and if I am to fight, I would rather do so where victory would benefit us." "I don't know that you are not right," the other assented. "It certainly seems a pity that the best blood of Ireland should be spilled, in Flanders and Spain, in the service of a foreign country. To my mind, the terms of the surrender of Limerick were disadvantageous both to Ireland and England. England has gained a number of inveterate foes who, with good and wise treatment, might now be fighting in her own ranks. Ireland has lost her best blood, men who were her natural leaders, and belonged to the old families, whom all respected." "I am sure it was a mistake," Desmond said. "If the terms had been an absolute equality in all matters of religion, and the free pardon of all, without confiscation of their property or other disability, it would have gone far to reconcile our people to defeat; for they would have seen that they could not hope for more than the right of free exercise of their religion, if the Stuarts came to the throne again." "Perhaps you are right, Kennedy. I know that I myself, had it not been for the persecutions and the priest hunting, and the closing of our chapels, should never have thought of leaving Ireland and taking foreign service. But now there is no going back." "No, I suppose not," Desmond said, gloomily. "Nothing short of an amnesty, ensuring freedom of worship, and perfect civil equality to all, would induce the majority of us to return to Ireland; and, indeed, it is not easy to see what we could do if we got there. The estates of our fathers are in the hands of strangers. We should soon be altogether without resources, and we should be almost driven to conspire again, even though success would in no way mend the matter. "However, there is no chance of such an act being passed, for, even if the English Ministry desired to do so, the Protestant feeling in England and Scotland would be too strong for them; and Parliament, which strongly represents that feeling, would reject the bill by an immense majority." "Then there is nothing to do but to go on fighting," Moore said. "I see nothing else for it, Moore, but I own that I do not care for the life. I have had three years of it now, and don't like the prospect of another thirty." "You have been fortunate, too, Kennedy!" "Yes, I have been fortunate in the way of getting promotion; fortunate that I was not, long before this, put under the sod; but it is no great gratification to be a captain, and though in another thirty years, if I live, I may be a general, I don't think even that would reconcile me to the life. It is just as hard, and a good deal more responsible; and if thirty years passed over, and the Stuarts were not restored, they assuredly never would be, and I should have wasted my life for nothing." "Well, I am very glad," Moore laughed, "that all our fellows do not look at it in the same light as you do, but take things as they come. I don't bother myself about the future." "It is a good thing," Desmond said, "and it is the national character to take things as they come. I dare say I shall get into the same way, some day, but just at present, I suppose partly because we have got a thrashing, I feel rather down in the dumps." Desmond continued his duties as aide-de-camp to O'Mahony, and took his share in the various operations, that ended with the army going into winter quarters and Philip making a triumphant entry into Madrid. Then he went to the general. "General, I wish to ask leave to return to France, at any rate for a time. The Duke of Berwick, when he despatched me to join the staff of the Duke of Orleans, said he would reinstate me on his staff as soon as the duke no longer required my services. When the Duke of Orleans left, I was handed over with the rest of the staff to the Marshal de Bay, under whom I served in the battle of the Guadiana, and until, as you know, I was detailed to accompany your brigade. Now that the campaign is over, I should, at any rate, like to pay a visit to the Duke of Berwick, under whom I served at Oudenarde. I have, therefore, come to ask you to dispense with my services, and to permit me to return to France." "Certainly, Captain Kennedy. Your assistance has been of great value to me, but there is no chance of anything being done during the winter; and, as many of my officers are now beginning to speak Spanish, they will, should they remain here till the spring, be able to get on very fairly. I shall be pleased, before you start, to furnish you with a testimonial stating the services you have rendered me. Indeed, I have, more than once, mentioned them in my reports."	{ "id": "18349" }
19	: In Search of a Family.	On the following day, Desmond left the brigade, and, followed by Mike, rode for Madrid, where was still lying a letter which had arrived, some months before, from England. He had not asked for it to be forwarded, for if he had been killed, and it had been found on him, it might do his memory a great disservice, as it would seem that he had been in correspondence with the British. The letter, which contained an enclosure, was, to his surprise, from Lord Godolphin. It ran: Dear Captain Kennedy: Partly at the request of the Earl of Galway, and still more from my own remembrance of your conduct, in that affair you know of, and of the silence that you maintained concerning it, I have pleasure in sending you a safe conduct to visit Ireland on private affairs. The earl tells me that you have rendered him the greatest of services, and this alone should cancel the fact that you have been serving against us in Flanders and Spain. For this, and your conduct to myself, I can promise you that should you, at any time while I am in power, decide to remain in Ireland, I will obtain for you a full and complete pardon, and a restoration to all your rights as an Irish subject of the queen. I will also obtain a reversal of any attainders or acts of confiscation that may have been passed against your family, on your giving your promise that you will not take part in any secret plots or conspiracies against the reigning family, though, in the event of a general rising in Ireland, with the assistance perhaps of a French army, you would be at liberty to choose your own course of action, without incurring more pains and penalties than those which might befall any native of Ireland waging war against the queen. As both Godolphin and Marlborough were known to be by no means unfavourably disposed to the cause of the Stuarts, Desmond was hardly surprised at the latter part of this intimation. Though he had but small hopes of being enabled to remain permanently at home, it was yet very welcome to him. Certainly, if he remained in Ireland he would consider himself bound to hold himself aloof from all Jacobite plots, although, if the country rose and a French army landed, he would, unless he considered the cause a hopeless one, draw his sword on behalf of him whom he considered as his lawful sovereign. "It is not sorry I am, your honour, to be turning my back on this country," Mike said, as they rode out from the gate. "The wine is good, which is more than I can say for anything else in it, except that the people are good Catholics." "I am starting a longer journey than you think, Mike. I am only going to the duke, now, to ask for a year's leave; though I do not think that I shall be absent more than a few months." "And where are you going, your honour, if I may make so bold as to ask?" "I am going to Ireland, Mike." Mike looked at him with astonishment. "To Ireland, your honour? Sure they will hang you, before you set your foot a week in the country." "I have obtained a safe conduct, Mike, from Lord Godolphin. You remember him, the nobleman we kidnapped?" "Sure I remember him, your honour; and he has given you a safe conduct? It is in luck you are, to be going back to Ireland again." "It is not a visit of pleasure, Mike. I am going over to try to ascertain to which branch of my family I belong." "And what can it matter, your honour? It's a good name you have made for yourself out here." "I have done well enough, Mike, but I am tired of being asked, by almost every officer I meet, about my family, when in fact I know nothing myself." "Well, Captain, it does not seem to me worth troubling about, for if you don't know who they are, it is little they can have done for you." "It would seem so, Mike. There is a mystery about the whole affair, and I want to get to the bottom of it." He rode silently for some distance. He knew that Mike would go through fire and water for him, and that, simple as he seemed, he had no ordinary amount of shrewdness; and he determined to tell him all he knew, especially as he intended to take him to Ireland with him. "Mike," he said at last, "I suppose you would like to pay a visit to Ireland, also?" "I should that," Mike said, emphatically. "I was but eighteen when I came out here to enlist in the brigade--that is twelve years ago now, and it is few people would be likely to know me again." "Well, I am thinking of taking you with me, Mike; and, as possibly you may be of use in my search, I will tell you my story." And he related the history of his youth. "He must be an unfeeling baste, to treat you like that," Mike exclaimed indignantly. "Sure I know the name, and have heard him spoken of as a traitor who had gone over to the enemy, and turned Protestant to save his estate." "That is how you would hear him spoken of, Mike, for it is true; but as to his treatment of me, it all depends whether I was forced upon him by threats, or was taken by him out of friendship to my father. If it were the first of these reasons, he cannot be blamed for keeping me at a distance. If the second, he certainly ought to have behaved differently. But neither explains why he, a supporter of the usurper, should have sent me out to France to fight against the English. It is a hard nut to crack." Mike agreed. "Mighty hard; but your honour will get to the bottom of it, never fear. And why are we going to the duke, master?" "To get leave of absence. I cannot disappear suddenly, without asking for leave. I shall, of course, tell the Duke of Berwick exactly why I am going, and I feel sure he will grant my request, without hesitation. There is no fighting to be done, just at present, and even if there were, one officer more or less would make no difference. "Have you any relations in Ireland, Mike?" "None that I know of, sir, barring a sister, who was twelve years older than myself; and it is little I saw of her, for she married when I was a bit of a gossoon. Her husband was killed in the siege of Limerick, and I heard that after it was over, she went to settle with some cousins in Cork. Whether she is there now, is married again, or is dead years ago, is more than I can say, seeing that I have never heard of her since." "Was she with her husband in the siege of Limerick?" "She was that. I heard about her from some men who knew her husband. They said, after he was killed, she went as a servant in the family of an officer and his wife for a bit, but the officer was killed, and the lady died of grief and trouble; and it was hard work she had to live till the place surrendered. That is all I know about it, your honour. It might have been true, and it might not. I was but a boy, and maybe I bothered the man with questions, and he just told me what came into his head to keep me quiet." "Well, at any rate, Mike, as we shall most likely land at Cork, you might try to find your sister out. If she went through the siege, she will know the names of many of the officers. She may have heard of a Kennedy." "Maybe of half a dozen, your honour. As loyal gentlemen, they would be sure to be there." "What was her name, Mike?" "Sure it was the same as my own before she married, just Norah Callaghan." "So I suppose, Mike," Desmond said with a laugh; "but what was the name of the husband?" "Rooney. I have not thought of it this many a year, but it is sure I am that it was Rooney; and now I think of it, a message came to me from her, just before I left the country, saying that should I ever be in the neighbourhood, it is glad she would be to see me; and I was to ask for Mrs. Rooney, who lived with her cousin, Larry Callaghan, a ship's carpenter, in Middle Lane, which I should find by the river bank." "Well, that is something to go by, Mike. Of course, she may have moved away long since; but if her cousin is a ship's carpenter, it is not likely that he would have left the neighbourhood." "I wonder your honour never asked about the Kennedys from some of the officers who were at the siege?" "I did not like to do so. The colonel came to the conclusion that I must be the son of Murroch Kennedy, who came out soon after Limerick surrendered, and was killed at Breda two or three months after he joined the brigade. The officers agreed with the colonel that this gentleman was probably my father, and of course I was contented that it should be supposed so, and therefore I asked no questions about other Kennedys. Of late, however, I have been worried over the matter. In the Irish regiments in Spain, as elsewhere, were a number of officers belonging to good old Irish families, and though I have got on well enough with them--in the first place as Berwick's aide-de-camp, and afterwards as on the staff of the generals here--I could see that when, in answer to their question, it was evident I knew little or nothing of my family, there was a sort of coolness in their manner which I could quite understand, counting back their ancestors, as they did, pretty nearly to the flood. At present, it does not make any difference to me personally, one way or the other, but I am convinced that if, by chance, when I get older, I should fall in love with the daughter of an officer of one of these old families, he would not for a moment listen to me, until I could give him some proofs that I had a right to the name I bear, or at any rate came of a good family. Certainly, at present, I could not assure him on either point. I only know that I have always been called Kennedy, and that it was under that name that I was committed to the care of Father O'Leary. That proves nothing more than that it is the name by which John O'Carroll wished me to be called; and it is as likely as not--indeed a good deal more likely--that it was not the true one." "Well, at any rate, your honour, you have made the name of Desmond Kennedy well known and liked, both among the Irish and French officers, for it is no slight thing that an officer in an infantry regiment should be taken on the staff of the Duke of Berwick." "All that is very well, Mike; but it will not satisfy me more than it satisfies others. So I am resolved to try to get to the bottom of the affair, even if I have to go direct to John O'Carroll, though I know that the chance of his telling me anything is but slight. The only way, indeed, that seems likely to lead to anything is to call upon as many of the Kennedys as I can discover, and ask whether Murroch Kennedy, who left Ireland after the siege of Limerick, married and left a child of two years old behind him. If so, and that child suddenly disappeared when his father left for France, there would be every reason for assuming that I was the child in question; though why he should have committed me to the charge of John O'Carroll, instead of to one of his own family, is not easily seen; unless the whole of the Kennedys were in such ill favour, with the English Government, that he thought it better to trust me to one who was in good odour with the supporters of Dutch William, and was therefore safe from disturbance in his estates." "Sure, your honour, you are arguing it out like a counsellor, and there is no gainsaying what you have spoken. I have no doubt you will ferret it out. With such a head as you have on your shoulders, it is hard if you cannot circumvent that ould rascal at Kilkargan." "At any rate we will try, you and I. While I am visiting the Kennedys, you can be finding out people who were at Limerick during the siege, and gather all they can remember about the Kennedys there." As Desmond had expected, the duke, as soon as he heard his story, at once granted him leave of absence. "I hope you may succeed, Kennedy," he said. "It is a poor lookout to be risking death continually in the service of a foreign king. I grant that we have the knack of making ourselves at home, wherever we may be, and there are Irish officers in every army in Europe; but, however successful Irishmen may be, they cannot but long to be among their own people in their own land. And if, as you tell me, Lord Godolphin will befriend you, I for one shall think no worse of you if you settle down at home when you have found your family. I know that if the sword should be again drawn, with a fair prospect of success, you will declare for the rightful king." "That I should certainly do, sir; and will assuredly give no promise, or undertaking, to abstain from joining any royal army that may be raised in Ireland. But it is not with any intention of settling at home that I am going there, but simply, as I have told you, to discover to what family I belong, so that I can have a right to the name I bear." "At what port will you embark?" "I intend to pay a visit, for a few days, to the Baron de Pointdexter and Monsieur de la Vallee, after which I shall cross into Italy. I have no doubt that I shall be able to find some fishermen, at Toulon, who will undertake to land me somewhere near Genoa, where I shall be able to take a passage in a ship bound for England." "And I suppose you take your servant with you?" "With your permission, Duke. He has been my companion for three years. He is shrewd as well as brave, and will give me valuable help in my enquiries." After remaining a couple of days with Berwick's army, Desmond started with Mike, and received the warmest welcome from the Baron de Pointdexter, and afterwards from Philip and his wife. Then they travelled on to Toulon, where Desmond sold the horses and equipments. He left his uniform and Mike's there, and procured two civilian suits. As he anticipated, he experienced no difficulty in arranging to be landed near Genoa. There he found several ships bound for England or Ireland, and took a passage in one that would touch at Cork, on its way to Dublin. The voyage was uneventful, and the ship, which had no great draught of water, proceeded up the river to the city. "The first thing to do, Mike," Desmond said, as they stepped ashore, "is to get rid of these clothes, whose French cut will at once attract attention. I shall get a suit such as is worn by an Irish gentleman. You had better equip yourself as my servant. No livery is worn here, but any quiet dress will be suitable." They put up at a small inn, and remained there until a suit such as Desmond desired was made for him, and Mike found no difficulty in purchasing ready-made clothes suitable to his new position. Desmond had taken rooms as Mr. Kennedy, and had asked carelessly if there were any families of that name living in the neighbourhood. "There is one who lives a short distance out of the town. It is a small house, and shame it is that one of the old family should come down so; but most of their estates were stolen from them after the war. Still, the old man holds his head as if he was still lord of broad acres, and he is mightily respected among the gentry." The next day, Desmond hired a horse and rode out to the house of Mr. Kennedy, which was some three miles from the town. He sent in his name, and was shown into a room, where a tall man, with a somewhat haughty air, received him not unkindly. "Your name is the same as my own," he said, "though I do not recognize the name of Desmond Kennedy among such members of the family as I am acquainted with." "I have but just landed from France, and my object in coming here is to obtain some information as to my father's family. Hearing that a gentleman of the name lived here, I came first to you. May I ask if you were acquainted with a Murroch Kennedy?" "Surely I was. He was my first cousin. We fought side by side at Limerick. I was not one of those who cared to enter foreign service. My estates were confiscated, and I have ever since lived here on the wreck of my fortune, taking no part in politics. "My cousin was of a different mind. He did not, indeed, go out at once with the greater part of the army of Limerick, but still, hoping that the cause was not altogether lost, he lived for some months among the mountains, and took part in a rising which was promptly suppressed, and then joined the Irish Brigade; and I received a notification, from one of his brother officers, that he had fallen at the battle of Breda. And now may I ask, in turn, what Murroch Kennedy's relationship was to you?" "I will tell you, sir. But first, will you kindly inform me whether your cousin left a child about a year old behind him?" "Certainly not, sir. My cousin was an unmarried man, at any rate up to the time when he left Ireland." "Then, sir, my questions are at an end. I may tell you that, about the time your cousin left Ireland, I was sent as an infant to the care of John O'Carroll, the traitor, of Kilkargan, and was brought up under the name of Desmond Kennedy. He showed me but little kindness, and, nearly three years ago, I went abroad and obtained a commission in one of the regiments in the Irish Brigade, and now hold the rank of captain. For many reasons, I am anxious to find out what family I belong to. It was assumed, by my colonel and fellow officers, that I was the son of Murroch Kennedy, and I wished to ascertain whether this was true, and with that object obtained leave of absence, and made my way back." "I am sorry that I can give you no assistance, sir. Assuredly you are not the son of my cousin, Murroch Kennedy; and had you been, John O'Carroll, the traitor, would have been the last man to whom he would have entrusted you. I know well the history of all the members of my branch of the family, and can answer, with certainty, that no child was lost, or missing, or unaccounted for at the time he went out; and as all were loyal gentlemen, none would have had any dealings with John O'Carroll, who betrayed the cause for which his brother died fighting at Limerick. I will, however, jot down, for your information, the other branches of the family of Kennedy and their places of residence, though I fear that there is but little probability of your search being successful, as, during the years that have elapsed since the late war, many must have died. Others, like my cousin, have taken service in one or other of the continental armies. Moreover, there is also a possibility that the name by which you are known is not your own." "I feel that myself, sir, and fear that my enquiries will not meet with success. Still, I shall pursue them until I have at least proved that I cannot belong to any well-known branch of the family. I am much obliged to you, for having so courteously answered my questions, and for your offer to give me a list of the various branches of the family." For the next few minutes, Mr. Kennedy was engaged in making out the list, which he then handed to Desmond. "And now, sir," the former went on, "that we have finished what we may consider business, will you tell me a little more about yourself? Your story naturally interests me, and I own that I am surprised that a young gentleman who, from what you have told me, cannot be much more than twenty years old, has risen to the rank of captain, in a brigade where so many officers have signally distinguished themselves. Your story, too, is an interesting one, and seems to me in many respects remarkable; and possibly, when I hear more of how you came to be brought up by John O'Carroll, it may throw some light upon the subject." Desmond gave a detailed account of his life as a boy, and a short sketch of his subsequent adventures. "A romantic story, young sir," Mr. Kennedy said, when he had finished, "and to whatever family you belong, they should be proud of possessing so gallant a member. You tell me that you have a safe conduct, but you did not mention how you obtained it." Desmond had abstained from making any allusion, either to the affair with Lord Godolphin, or to that with the Earl of Galway, and he replied: "Sir, this is a secret that concerns other people, as well as myself, consequently I am not at liberty to explain it. I may say, however, that it was given to me on my engagement that my visit to Ireland was one of a private nature only, and that I would in no way meddle with politics. When I tell you that the Duke of Berwick, himself, granted me the necessary leave of absence, it will prove to you that he, on his part, was well satisfied that the safe conduct had been issued to me without any unworthy offers, on my part, to the Princess Anne's ministers." After chatting for some time longer, Desmond took his leave and returned to Cork. Mike was standing at the door of the inn. "I have had no success, Mike. Have you fared better?" "I have not found her yet, your honour, but I have great hopes of doing so. Larry Callaghan died four years ago, and the woman of the house she occupied said that Mrs. Rooney moved, with his widow and children, to some other part of the town. She knew little about them, seeing that she only went into the house after they had left; but her husband worked in the same yard as Larry did, and she thought that he would be able to find out, from some of the old hands, where the widow Callaghan had moved to. She said she would ask her husband when he came home to his dinner, and maybe he would be able to give her some news. "And so, your honour has learned nothing about yourself?" "Nothing, Mike, except that I am certainly not the son of Murroch Kennedy, who was a cousin of the gentleman I called on. I was assured that he was a single man, when he went to France. However, he gave me a list of the principal branches of the Kennedy family, but there is no hurry about starting to see them, and I will certainly wait here till you find your sister, which should not be many days, for some of Callaghan's fellow workmen are almost sure to know where his widow lives." Mike went out, at seven o'clock that evening, and returned half an hour later. "I have got the address, your honour. She and the widow Callaghan have got a little place outside the town, and take in washing there, and are going on nicely." "I am pleased to hear it, I am sure, Mike. I have but small hope that she will be able to give any useful information, but for your sake, I am glad that you have found a sister whom you have not seen for so many years. I suppose you will go up there, at once." "I will that. They will have done their work, and we shall have a comfortable talk, whereas she would not thank me if I were to drop in when she was busy at the washtub." "Well, you might ask her to come down, tomorrow morning, to see me. Of course, she shall not be a loser by giving up her morning's work." "Whisht, your honour! When she knows how much you have done for me, and how you have treated me, she would willingly lose a week's work to give you pleasure. Well, I will be off at once." It was eleven o'clock before Mike returned. "We have had a great talk, your honour, me and Norah. She would not believe at first that I was her brother, and in truth, I found it hard to credit that she was Norah, who was a purty colleen when I saw her last; but when we had convinced each other that we were both who we said we were, matters went on pleasantly. I told her some of my adventures with you, and that, by the same token, I had a hundred gold pieces that the Baron of Pointdexter had given me, sewn up in a belt round my waist, where it has been ever since I got it, except when we went into battle, or on that expedition to Scotland, when, as your honour knows, I always put it in with the agent in your name, seeing that I would rather, if I was killed, know that your honour would have it, instead of its being taken by some villain searching the dead. I told her that, if she and Mrs. Callaghan wanted to take a bigger place, I would share it with her, and that quite settled the matter, in her mind, that I was her brother. She said, as I knew she would, that she would come and talk to you for a week, if you wanted it; and she will be here tomorrow, at nine o'clock." "That is very satisfactory. I am afraid nothing will come of our talk; but still, one may get a clue to other Kennedys who were present at the siege of Limerick." Punctually at nine o'clock, Mike ushered his sister into Desmond's sitting room. "I am glad to see you, Mrs. Rooney. Your brother has been with me for three years, and has rendered me very many services, and I regard him as a friend, rather than as a servant. I am glad that he has found his sister, from whom he had been so long parted." "Mike has been telling me how good you have been to him, and that he would go through fire and water for you, and that you have had some wonderful adventures together. He said you wanted to speak to me about the siege of Limerick. If there is anything that I can tell you, your honour, I will do so gladly." "What I want to know is, what Kennedys were at the siege?" "There was Murroch Kennedy, and Phelim, who was always called 'Red Kennedy', on account of his colour; and James and Fergus. I knew all those, because they were friends of my master's. It may be that there were many others, but they were unbeknown to me." "Am I like any of them?" The woman looked at him searchingly. "You are not, sir; but you are mighty like my master, barring, of course, that he was a man ten years older than yourself. But the more I look at you, the more I see the likeness." "I did not know that you had a master, Mrs. Rooney. I thought that you were there with your husband." "So I was, your honour; but when he was kilt I was left alone, saving for a child that had been born a fortnight before; and what with the bad smells of the place, and the sound of the cannon, and the fact of my grief, he pined away all at once, and died a week after me husband. It is well-nigh starving we all were. Even the fighting men had scarce enough food to keep their strength up, and a lone woman would have died from hunger. So I was mighty glad, when a friend of mine told me that there was an officer's lady who had had a baby, and, being but weak and ailing, wanted a foster mother for it; so I went at once and got the place, and was with her for a month. "Her husband was killed three weeks after I went there, and the blow was too much for her, and she died a week later. A fortnight after that came the peace, and as everything was in confusion, what wid our soldiers all going away to France, and the persecutions and slaughterings, I took the child with me and went down to my cousin Larry's here. Av course, I could not part with it, and I could not make my way alone across the country, so I came down here with the troops. I was not strong myself, and it was a year later before I was able to take it to its friends." "What was the name of your master?" Desmond asked eagerly, for her last words had excited a sudden train of ideas in his mind. "He was Mr. James O'Carroll, a great gentleman, and the head of his family." Desmond sprang to his feet. "That explains it all!" he exclaimed. "Mrs. Rooney, I have no doubt that I am your foster child." "Why, how can that be, your honour, seeing as your name is Kennedy? Though, except for that, you might well be so, seeing that you are so like my master." "At any rate, Mrs. Rooney, I was reared at Kilkargan, at the expense of John O'Carroll, and was, as I heard, brought there by a woman when I was a year old. O'Carroll said that my name was Desmond Kennedy, but I had only his word for it." "Then how is it that you are not master of Kilkargan, for if you are Mr. James O'Carroll's son, it is you that ought to be? I have always thought of you as there. I have not been in the way of getting news. I left my address with Mr. John, but I never heard from him, or you. I thought, perhaps, that he might have lost the address, but I never dreamt that you had been kept out of your own." "I don't know that I can say that, altogether," Desmond said; "for, if it had been known that James O'Carroll had left an heir, his estates would certainly have been confiscated; whereas, owing to his brother's turning Protestant, and joining the Williamites, he was allowed to keep possession of them. I can understand now what seemed so strange, namely, that he feared I might somehow learn that I was his nephew, and heir to the estates. Therefore, he behaved as if I was the son of a stranger, and when I was old enough, sent me off to join the Irish Brigade, in hopes that he had seen the last of me; for, even if not killed, I should never be able to set foot in Ireland again after fighting for France. 'Tis strange that none of my father's brother officers ever made any enquiries about it." "They all went with the army to France, sir. They knew, of course, that the child was born, though they may never have seen you, for the mistress never left her bed after you were born. Naturally, after her death they lost sight of me, and might well have believed that the child had died." "You must give me the names of all the officers who came to the house, Mrs. Rooney. Many of them may be alive still, and their testimony that a child was born would be most important, for at present there is only your word against John O'Carroll's." "There is more than that, sir. You were baptized on the day she died. My mistress gave me the paper the priest had given to her, saying that it was of the greatest importance to you, and that I was to give it to Mr. John O'Carroll when, as I promised, I took the child to him." "And did you give it him?" Desmond asked eagerly. "No, your honour. I took it with me to the castle, but from the reception I got, I thought it best to say nothing about it, but to give it to yourself when you were old enough. I have got it at home now. There it is, certifying that Gerald O'Carroll, the son of James O'Carroll and his wife Elizabeth, was baptized by him on the 6th of September, 1692." "That is fortunate, indeed," Desmond exclaimed. "And now, tell me how this uncle of mine received you." "Faith, your honour, he was mightily put out, at first. He said that I was an impostor, and that he would have me given in charge. I told him that I had proofs that what I said was true, and that there were many gentlemen, brother officers of Mr. James, who would speak for me, and say in court that a son was born to his brother before he died. He wanted to get out of me what proofs I had, and who were the officers; but I told him that was my business. Then he cooled down, and after a time he said that, if he were to let it be known that Mr. James had left a son, the estate would surely be confiscated, seeing that his father died as a rebel fighting against the king; but that, as soon as the persecutions had ceased, and it would be safe to do so, he would say who the child was, and give him his rightful place. That seemed reasonable enough, and so I left you with him, and have always supposed that he kept his word; and that, as soon as it was safe, he acknowledged you to be master of your father's estate." "And now, Mrs. Rooney, I must think matters over, and see how I had best proceed. I feel how much I owe to you, and, if I recover my estates, you shall see that I am not ungrateful. Will you come again tomorrow morning, and bring with you the certificate of my baptism, and all the names that you can recollect of the officers who were intimate with my father?"	{ "id": "18349" }
20	: Gerald O'Carroll.	Mike, who had remained silent during the conversation between his sister and Desmond, returned to the room after seeing her out. "Well, Mike, you have rendered me many services, but this is the greatest of all. Little did I think, when you said you had found your sister, and that she was coming to me this morning, that she would be able to clear up the mystery of my birth, and to place me in a position to prove myself a son of James O'Carroll. I do not say that I shall regain the estates. My having been in the Brigade will certainly render it difficult for me to do so, though possibly, with the patronage of Lord Godolphin, I may succeed. For that, however, I care comparatively little. My object, in coming here, was to obtain proof that I belong to a good Irish family, and that I have no doubt I shall be able to establish." "And what am I to call you, your honour, now that I know you are Captain Gerald O'Carroll, and not Desmond Kennedy, at all?" "At any rate, I must remain Desmond Kennedy at present, Mike. It is under that name that my safe conduct was made out, and if I were arrested as Gerald O'Carroll, it would be no protection to me. However, I shall not want to use it long, for it seems to me that my first step must be to return to France, and to see some of the officers who knew my father, and were aware of my birth. Their testimony would be of great value, and without it there would be little chance of your sister's evidence being believed." "But there is the paper, your honour." "Yes; that will show that a child was born, but the proof that I am that child rests entirely with your sister. It might have died when its mother did, and they would say that your sister was trying to palm off her own child, or someone else's, as his. Of course, Mrs. Callaghan would be able to prove that your sister arrived immediately after the surrender of Limerick, bringing a child with her, and that she said it was the son of James O'Carroll; and that she went a year later to Kilkargan, and left it there with John O'Carroll. Moreover, I could get plenty of evidence, from those on the estate, that I was the child so left." "The likeness that Norah saw between you and your father might be taken as a proof, sir." "I did not think of that, Mike. Yes, if some of these officers will also testify to the likeness, it will greatly strengthen my case. The chain of evidence seems pretty strong. First, there is the certificate of my baptism, your sister's declaration that I was entrusted to her by my mother on her deathbed, supported by Mrs. Callaghan's declaration that three weeks later she arrived in Cork with the child, which she told her was that of James O'Carroll; your sister's declaration that she took me to Kilkargan and handed me over to my uncle, which would be supported by the evidence of the woman he first placed me with; while the servants of the castle could prove that I was brought by a woman who, an hour later, left the castle without speaking to anyone but my uncle. "John O'Carroll will find it difficult to explain why he took me in, and who is the Kennedy of whom I was the son, and what service he had rendered for him, a Protestant and a Williamite, to have undertaken the charge of the child of a rebel. There is no doubt that the weight of evidence is all on my side, but whether the judges would decide in favour of the son of a rebel, as against a friend of the English party, is doubtful. Possibly Lord Godolphin's influence might be exerted in my favour. He promised in his letter to me to do me any service in his power. Still, even if I lose the estate, which I may well do on the ground of my father having fought and died for the cause of James the Second, I should still have the satisfaction of establishing my name, which I consider of more importance than the estates." "Sure, your honour, it's a grand thing to belong to a good old Irish stock; but for myself, I would rather be Mike Callaghan and have a fine estate, than Mike O'Neil without an acre of land." Desmond smiled. "There is common sense in what you say, Mike, but there is nothing more unpleasant than, when you are with a number of Irish gentlemen or Spanish grandees, who are equally proud of their ancestors, to be unable to give any account of your family, or even to be sure that you have a right to the name that you bear." "Well, your honour, it is a matter of taste. As for myself, if the whisky is good, it makes no differ to me whether they call it Cork or Dublin, or whether it is made up in the mountains and has sorra a name at all." The next morning, Mrs. Rooney returned with the certificate of baptism, and a list containing some twenty names of officers who had been frequent visitors at James O'Carroll's. Among these Desmond, to his satisfaction, found Arthur Dillon, Walter Burke, Nicholas Fitzgerald, and Dominic Sheldon, all of whom now held the rank of general in the French service, and to all of whom he was personally known, having met them either when with Berwick or in Spain. "Those names are good enough," he said. "And if they can testify to my likeness to my father, it will go a long way towards furnishing proof, when required. All of them entered the service under the provisions of the treaty of Limerick, and therefore their testimony cannot be treated as that of traitors; and their names must be as well known in England as in France. "Now, Mike, our business here is, for the present, concluded. I shall at once return to France, see all these officers who are still alive, and obtain, if possible, their recognition. As I have a year's leave, I can travel about as I choose. Then I shall decide whether I shall commence an action in the courts, or whether I shall first go over to England, see Lord Godolphin, explain the circumstances to him, and ask for his protection and patronage. "I suppose the case would be tried at Dublin, where the judges are all creatures of England, and there can be no doubt that a notification, from Godolphin, that he considered my claim to be a good one, and was favourable to it, would have no slight influence with them; and would counteract, to some extent, the fact of my uncle's being a Protestant, and what they would consider a loyal man. Before beginning an action, I should certainly communicate with my uncle, and call upon him to resign in my favour; for I would avoid the scandal of proving an O'Carroll to be a scoundrel, as well as a traitor. As it has turned out, the step which he thought would disembarrass him of me has had the other effect, for, if I had not gone out to France, I should never have been troubled by questions about my family; and should not have met you, Mike, or known of the existence of your sister, the only person who could clear up the matter. "I shall begin to think what O'Neil and O'Sullivan used to say, that my luck would carry me through anything; and certainly, at present, it has been marvellous." "Which way will we go back, your honour?" "Not the way we came, if we can help it. We were nearly a month coming from Genoa, and might have been twice as long, if the wind had not been fairly favourable. I think our best plan will be to take passage by sea to London. There we shall have no difficulty in finding a vessel bound for Rotterdam, or the Hague. Then we will buy horses, and ride along by the Rhine. If we can get through Luxembourg into France we will do so, but I think it will perhaps be best to go on through Switzerland, and pass the frontier somewhere near Lyons, where we shall be but a short distance from Berwick's headquarters in Dauphiny." A month later, they rode into the duke's camp. They had, on leaving Toulon, packed up their uniforms and sent them to the care of a friend on the general's staff. To his quarters they first went, and having changed his civilian costume for a military one, Desmond waited on the duke. "Why, Captain Kennedy," the duke said, in surprise; "I did not look to see you again, so soon. Have you been over to Ireland?" "I have, sir, and though there only a few days, gained information that necessitated my return here. I have found out that the name I go by is not mine, and that my proper name is Gerald O'Carroll." "The son of Major James O'Carroll, who fought by my side at the Boyne, and was through the first siege of Limerick with me! That explains it. Your face has often puzzled me. It seemed to me that I recognized it, and yet I could not recall whose face it was that it resembled so strongly. Now you tell me, I know at once. Your father, when I first knew him, was a few years older than you are; but he had the same figure, face, and expression. "And so, you are his son! By what miracle have you discovered your relationship to him?" Desmond, or as he should now be called, Gerald, related as briefly as possible the manner in which he had discovered his parentage. "Your uncle must be a thorough villain," the duke said, hotly. "That he was a traitor we all knew, but that he should thus rob his brother's son of his inheritance is monstrous and unnatural." "I am glad, indeed, sir, that you have thus recognized me. Your testimony will go for much, even in an English court, and I hope to receive a similar recognition from the officers who were intimate with my father in the second siege, and whose names I have here." The duke glanced down the list. "Well-nigh half of them are still alive," he said, "and all of them are men of rank and repute, whose word would be taken even by an enemy. How do you mean to proceed? Because I am afraid that, even if we could spare them, there would be some difficulty about their making their appearance in a court, in either England or Ireland." "I quite see that that is out of the question. All I can hope for is, that such of them as recognize my likeness to my father will draw up a paper saying so, and will attest it before a notary, having as witnesses men of weight and honour equal to their own. The production of such certificates could not but have a strong influence in my favour." "I will most willingly sign such a document," the duke said, "and four of my best-known generals can sign as witnesses to my signature." "I thank you most heartily, sir. Such a document should, in itself, be considered as ample proof of my strong resemblance to my father." "That may or may not be," the duke said, "but do not be content with that. Get as many of the others as possible to make similar declarations. One man may see a likeness where another does not, but if a dozen men agree in recognizing it, their declarations must have a great weight. Certainly no Irish judge would doubt the testimony of so many men, whose families and whose deeds are so well known to them." From Dauphiny, Gerald travelled first into Spain, and the three Irish officers there whose names were on his list all recognized the likeness, even before he told them his name. He put the question to them in a general way. "I have learned, sir, that the name I bear is not my own, that I am the son of an officer who was killed in the siege of Limerick. May I ask you if you can recognize any likeness between myself and any officer with whom you were well acquainted there?" In each case, after a little consideration, they declared that he must be the son of James O'Carroll. All remembered that their comrade's wife had borne a son, shortly before the end of the siege. They remembered her death, but none had heard what became of the child, for in the excitement of the closing scenes, and of the preparation for the march immediately afterwards, they had had little time on their hands, and it was hitherto supposed that it had, like so many other infants, perished miserably. They willingly signed documents, similar to that which he had received from Berwick. He met with almost equal success on the northern frontier, only two out of eight officers failing to identify him by his likeness; until he mentioned his name, when they, too, acknowledged that, now they recalled James O'Carroll's face, they saw that the likeness was a striking one. Having obtained these documents, he resumed civilian attire, and, riding by crossroads, passed through Flanders to Sluys, without coming in contact with any body of the allied troops. There he had no difficulty in obtaining a passage to London, and on his arrival called upon Lord Godolphin, who received him cordially. "So you have utilized your safe conduct, Captain Kennedy. I am glad to see my former captor, and I am as grateful as ever to you for the silence you maintained as to that affair. If it had been known to my enemies, I should never have heard the last of it. They would have made me such a laughingstock that I could scarcely have retained office. "Now, what can I do for you?" "It is a long story, my lord." "Then I cannot listen to it now; but if you will sup with me here, at nine o'clock this evening, I shall be glad to hear it. I am so harassed by the backstair intrigues of my enemies, that it would be a relief to me to have something else to think of." Gerald returned at the appointed time. Nothing was said as to his affairs while supper was served, but after the table had been cleared, decanters of port placed on the table, and the servants had retired, Godolphin said: "Now, Captain Kennedy, let us hear all about it." Gerald related the history of his younger days, and of the manner in which he had discovered his real parentage, producing the certificate of his baptism, a statement which had been drawn up at Cork and signed by Norah Rooney, and the testimony of the Duke of Berwick and the other Irish officers. "There can be no doubt whatever, in the mind of any fair man," Lord Godolphin said, after listening attentively to the whole story, and examining the documents, "that your uncle, John O'Carroll, is a villain, and that you have been most unjustly deprived of your rights. I know him by name, and from the reports of our agents in Ireland, as one of the men who turned his coat and changed his religion to save his estates. Those men I heartily despise; while those who gave up all, and went into exile in order, as they believed, there to serve the cause of their rightful sovereign, are men to be admired and respected. Be assured that justice shall be done you. Of course, you will take action in the courts?" "I shall first summon him to give up the estate, shall let him know that I have indisputable evidence to prove that I am the son of his elder brother, and shall say that, if he will give up possession peaceably, I will take no further steps in the matter, for the sake of the family name. If he refuses, as I fear is probable, I must then employ a lawyer." "Yes, and a good one. I will furnish you with letters to the lord lieutenant, and to Lord Chief Justice Cox, strongly recommending you to them, and requesting the latter to appoint one of the law officers of the crown to take up your case. I should say that, when this John O'Carroll sees that you have such powerful friends, he will perceive that it is hopeless for him to struggle in so bad a cause, and will very speedily accept your terms, though methinks it is hard that so great a villain should go unpunished. "Now, it will be as well that you should have something stronger than the safe conduct that I sent you. I will therefore draw out a document for Her Majesty to sign, granting you a full and free pardon for any offences that you may have committed against her and the realm, and also settling upon you the estates to which you are the rightful heir, in and about the barony of Kilkargan; being influenced in so doing by the great services rendered by you, both to Her Majesty's well-beloved and faithful minister and counsellor, myself, and to her trusty general, the Earl of Galway. "The queen is not very likely to ask the nature of the service. Unless it be something that concerns herself, she asks but few questions, and signs readily enough the documents laid before her. If she asks what are the offences for which she grants her pardon, I shall say, when but a boy you were maliciously sent abroad to join the Irish Brigade by your uncle, who wished thus to rid himself of you altogether, and who had foully wronged you by withholding your name, from you and all others. I shall also add that you have distinguished yourself much, and have gained the friendship of her half brother, the Duke of Berwick; and you know that the queen, in her heart of hearts, would rather that her brother, whom you Jacobites call James the Third, should succeed her than the Elector of Hanover, for whom she has no love." "I thank you greatly, indeed, my lord. Never was a man so amply rewarded for merely holding his tongue." "It was not only that, sir. It was your conduct in general to me. You might have left me tied up in that house, to be found in the morning, and to be made the jest of the town; instead of which, you yourself conducted and guarded me hither, and so contrived it that no whisper spread abroad that I had been carried off between Saint James's and my own house. You trusted to my honour, in not causing a pursuit of you to be set on foot, and behaved in all ways as a gallant young gentleman, and certainly gained my high esteem, both for the daring and ingenuity with which you carried out your plans for obtaining a passage to France, and for your personal conduct towards myself. "Where are you lodging?" "At the Eagle, hard by the Abbey." "Remain there, until you hear from me. Do not be impatient. I must choose my time, when either the queen is in a good temper, or is in such a hurry to get rid of me, in order to plot and gossip with Mistress Harley, who is now her prime favourite, that she is ready to sign any document I may lay before her." Feeling that his cause was as good as won, Gerald returned in high spirits to his inn, where he delighted Mike by relating how the great minister had promised to forward his suit. "Ah, your honour, it will be a grand day when you take possession of Kilkargan--bonfires and rejoicing of all sorts, and lashings of drink. Won't all the boys in the barony be glad to be free from the traitor, and to have the true heir come to be their master. None the less glad will be my sister." "You must fetch her from Cork, Mike. It is owing to her that I am alive, and it will be owing to her if I recover the estate. She shall have the place of honour on the occasion, though all the gentry in the neighbourhood are there. When I tell them what she has done for me, they will say that she well deserves the honour!" "And you will go no more to the wars, Captain O'Carroll?" "No, Mike. I have been but three years in the French army, but I have seen enough of fighting, and, worse still, of fighting against men of our own nation. Besides, if the queen grants me the estates of my father, I shall consider myself bound in honour not to draw my sword against her, or to mix myself up in any plot or conspiracy, but to remain strictly neutral whatever may be going on. Indeed, the more I think of it, the more I doubt whether it would be for the good of Ireland did the Stuarts return to the throne. It could only be done at a further cost of blood and misery. The old religious quarrels would break out more fiercely than ever, there would be risings and civil wars, confiscations and massacres, whichever side happened to get the upper hand. That James the Third is the lawful sovereign of the three kingdoms, I shall always uphold, but there are cases when it is to the benefit of the country, at large, that there should be a change in the succession." "Sure that may be so, your honour; and yet, it is hard that a man should be kept out of his own." "No doubt it is hard; but it is far harder that thousands of people should be killed, and tens of thousands ruined, for the sake of one man." "So it is, sir. So it is, sure enough, when one comes to think of it. Ireland has suffered mightily in the cause of the Stuarts, and I don't suppose that, if King James succeeded to the throne, his English ministers would let him turn out all the men who have taken the places and lands of the old families." "That they certainly would not, Mike. When Charles the Second returned from exile, all those who had fought and suffered for him thought that they would recover their estates, and turn out Cromwell's men, to whom they had been granted. But they were disappointed. The king found that he could not make so great a change, without upsetting the whole country, and that an attempt to do so would cost him his crown; and you may be sure that James would find an equal difficulty, were he to come to the throne." "Well, well, your honour, you know more of such matters than I do; but I have no doubt that you are right. I am sure we don't want the bad times to come over again, in Ireland." Three days later, Gerald received a message from Lord Godolphin, saying that he wished to see him; and, on going to his house, the minister handed to him the paper with the full pardon, and the confirmation of his ownership in his father's estates; together with a letter to the lord lieutenant, and the Lord Chief Justice Cox. The next day, he took ship for Dublin, and on arriving there presented his letters, and was well received by those to whom they were directed. The lord lieutenant said: "It is enough for me, Mr. O'Carroll, that Lord Godolphin speaks of you in such high terms, and I question not that he has thoroughly satisfied himself as to your right to these estates. At the same time, I should be glad if you will give me a brief outline of how it is that you never claimed them before, though perhaps it is as well that you did not do so, for, until the passions excited by the war had somewhat subsided, a friend of the Government would hardly have interposed for the benefit of the son of one who had died fighting for James." Gerald had drawn up three copies of a statement containing a precis of the case, and he handed one of these to the lord lieutenant, saying: "As the story is a somewhat long one, my lord, I have written it down, in order that you might read it at your leisure." "I will certainly do so, Mr. O'Carroll. I should like to be personally acquainted with the details of the matter. It will doubtless excite a considerable stir. It is, I believe, the first time that a supporter of the Government has had to defend his title against one of the family that fought on the other side." "It is hardly a case of royalist and rebel, sir, but the deliberate action of a man suppressing all knowledge of the existence of his own nephew, in order that he might himself obtain the property of his dead brother. "I have no doubt that, had it been known that I was in existence, I should still have been thrust aside in order to reward his adhesion to the cause of William, but that would have made his position intolerable. As one who has changed his religion and his politics, he is regarded as a traitor by the people of the barony, and avoided by all the gentry round; but the feeling would have been infinitely stronger, if it had been known that he was keeping his own nephew out of his inheritance. My father was, as I understand, immensely popular, and I doubt whether his brother would have dared to show his face within fifty miles of Kilkargan, had it been known that not only was he a traitor, but a usurper." The lord lieutenant smiled. "I am not surprised at your warmth, Mr. O'Carroll; but, unfortunately, your case is not a solitary one. There are thousands of men in Ireland who have suffered for the deeds of their fathers. However, I shall understand the case better when I have read your statement." It was evident to Gerald that the lord chief justice, who had taken a leading part in the prosecution and punishment of persons known to be favourable to the Jacobite cause, was not altogether pleased with Lord Godolphin's letter. "A strange affair," he said. "A strange and, as it appears to me, an unfortunate business. "However, sir," he went on, with a changed tone; "I shall certainly do my best to see justice done, in accordance with his lordship's request. I will read carefully through this statement of your claim, and, after considering it, place it in the hands of the crown lawyers. "But it seems to me that your own position here is a strange one, and that you yourself are liable to arrest, as a member of a family whose head was one of the late king's strongest adherents." "My own position, sir, is regulated by this document, bearing the signature of the queen and her chief minister;" and he laid the official paper before Cox. "That certainly settles that question," the latter said, after perusing it. "Of course I shall, for my own satisfaction, read your statement; but I do not wish to see any documents or proofs you may possess in the matter. These you must, of course, lay before your counsel. I think I can't do better than give you a letter to Mr. Counsellor Fergusson, with whom you can go into all particulars, and who will advise you as to the course that you had best take." Mr. Fergusson, although one of the crown lawyers, enjoyed a wide reputation, even among the Jacobite party, for the moderation and the fairness with which he conducted the crown cases placed in his hands. He had less employment than his colleagues, for only cases in which the evidence of acts of hostility to the crown were indisputable were committed to him, it having been found that he was unwilling to be a party to calling doubtful witnesses, or to using the means that were, in the majority of cases, employed to obtain convictions. The lord chief justice's letter to him was as follows: Dear Mr. Counsellor Fergusson: I have been requested, by Lord Godolphin, to place the case of the bearer of this letter in good hands, and cannot better carry out his request than by asking you to act in the matter. Lord Godolphin has expressed himself most strongly as to the justness of his claim. The bearer's father was, he states, James O'Carroll, a noted rebel who was killed at the siege of Limerick. This alone would, it might have been thought, have proved a bar to any action on his part against the present possessor of the property; but he is the bearer of a document, signed by the queen herself, reinstating him in all rights he may possess, notwithstanding the actions of his father or of himself. It is not for me to make any comment upon the royal document, though I may say that I fear it may give rise to other suits, and alarm many loyal subjects who have become possessed of confiscated estates. However, we must hope that this will not be so, as it is expressly stated that, in this instance, the pardon and restoration of rights are given in consideration of services rendered by this young gentleman to Lord Godolphin himself, and to the Earl of Galway. What the nature of these services may have been does not concern me. Gerald carried this letter to the address indicated, and on saying that he was the bearer of a letter from the lord chief justice, he was at once shown into the counsellor's room. The latter, a man of some fifty-five years old, with features that told of his Scottish extraction, with keen eyes and a kindly face, took the letter which Gerald presented to him, and begged him to be seated while he read it. As he glanced through it, a look of surprise came across his face, and he read the letter carefully, and then looked at Gerald keenly. "You are fortunate in having such good friends, Mr. O'Carroll," he said. "Before I go into the case, will you let me know something about yourself? You are, I take it, some twenty years of age?" "I am but a few months past nineteen." "By your figure, I should have put you as three years older; by your face, two years. You must have been fortunate, indeed, to have gained the protection both of Lord Godolphin and the Earl of Galway. No less than this would have sufficed to gain for you this rescript of Her Majesty. "And now, sir, please to give me an outline of your case, as to the nature of which I am, at present, entirely ignorant." "I have put it down in writing, sir," Gerald said, handing him the third copy of his statement. "It will take me some time to read this, Mr. O'Carroll, and I would rather do so alone, and ask you any question that may occur to me afterwards. Will you therefore call upon me again, in an hour's time?" Upon Gerald's return, the counsellor said: "It is a strange story, Mr. O'Carroll, and a very disgraceful one. You allude, I see, to testimonies of Irish officers in the French service as to your likeness to the late Mr. James O'Carroll. Will you please let me see them?" "Here they are, sir, together with a sworn statement by my nurse." The lawyer read the documents through carefully. "The testimony of the Duke of Berwick, and of the other honourable and well-known Irish gentlemen, as to the striking likeness between yourself and Mr. James O'Carroll, cannot but carry immense weight in the minds of all unprejudiced persons. They prove too, conclusively, that James O'Carroll left an infant boy behind him, and the statement of the nurse goes a long way to prove you are that son; and I think that this is substantiated by the conduct of John O'Carroll; first in receiving you and undertaking your care; secondly, in the neglect, and I should almost say the dislike, he manifested towards the child he had sheltered; and thirdly, in the extraordinary step that he, a professedly loyal subject of Her Majesty, took in sending you off to enlist in the brigade composed of the devoted adherents of the son of James the Second. "No doubt, at any rate, can arise that you are the child brought by this Mrs. Rooney to Kilkargan. That can be proved beyond all question; and the fact that your nurse was sent off without having any conversation save with John O'Carroll himself, would show how anxious he was that no one but himself should know her errand. "I must say that you have shown great acumen in mustering evidence, of all kinds, that would bear upon the question. I say frankly that, without this royal rescript, and the influence of these two noblemen, your chance, as James O'Carroll's son, of wresting your patrimony from the hands of your uncle would be small indeed. Politics have, much more than facts, to do with decisions here; but with such powerful credentials, and with the chief minister of England interfering on your behalf, I think that there is no great doubt that you will secure a judgment in your favour. When the facts are known, the feeling of the greater portion of the population will run strongly with you, and against this unnatural uncle of yours." "I should be desirous, if possible, sir, of avoiding a public trial that would bring discredit upon the name of my family, and would, in the eyes of the supporters of the present Government, act prejudicially to myself." "You are quite right. How do you propose to proceed?" "I was thinking, sir, of sending a statement to my uncle, similar to that which I laid before you, going somewhat further into details, and promising that, if he would surrender the property to me and publicly acknowledge me as his nephew, giving what reason he chose for having so long concealed his knowledge of the fact, I would take no proceedings against him, and would do my best to prevent any discredit falling upon him." "That would do very well," the lawyer said, "but I should abstain from making any allusion to the protectors you have gained. He will learn that soon enough, and it will be well to see what his first impulse is. Do not mention the names of the Duke of Berwick and the others, who have testified to your likeness to your late father. Simply say that many of his comrades have recognized your likeness to him. It is of no use showing him all the cards we have to play. I should not send the letter by post, but by hand. If you like, I will despatch one of my own messengers down with it, with instructions to bring back an answer, but not to say anything, if questioned, as to his being in my employment." The next morning, the messenger started by coach for Kilkargan. He returned four days later, bearing John O'Carroll's answer. It read as follows: Sir: I have received your audacious letter, and proclaim you to be an impostor, worthy of the severest punishment for attempting to personate a son of my late brother. However, for the sake of my friendship for Mr. Kennedy, your father, I give you twenty-four hours to leave the country, before laying any information against you, both as an impostor and as a rebel who has served against the armies of Her Majesty. I shall, however, at once apply for a writ ordering your arrest, which will be served upon you within twenty-four hours of your receipt of this communication. I shall also have this woman, your pretended nurse, arrested for perjury and conspiracy. Gerald took this letter to the counsellor. "That is exactly what I expected," he said, after reading it. "It shows the man in his true colours. We shall see what he says when he learns who are employed against him, and what protection you have obtained. My opinion is that, before many hours have passed, you will receive a letter in a different strain. I consider it by no means improbable that the lord chief justice will have written to him privately, warning him that you have received a full pardon, and are restored to all your rights, and that you are strongly supported by Lord Godolphin, who has written to him and the lord lieutenant in your favour; that you have also the protection of the Earl of Galway, an officer who possesses the confidence of Her Majesty; and that the Duke of Berwick, and many of the best-known Irish officers in the service of France, have all given their testimony, in the most positive manner, of your likeness to James O'Carroll, whom they knew intimately; and will say that, at the request of Lord Godolphin that the matter should be placed in the hands of one of the crown lawyers, it has been submitted to me; and that in my opinion, which I wrote him after our interview, a decision in your favour is inevitable; and strongly advising him to make the best compromise with you in his power." The same evening, indeed, a mounted messenger, who had ridden posthaste from Kilkargan, arrived with another letter from John O'Carroll. It began: My Dear Nephew: I wrote yesterday in haste, on the receipt of your communication. It seemed to me that you were rushing on destruction, by avowing yourself to be the son of my brother James; and that you would be liable to be arrested as a Jacobite agent in the service of France. Therefore, I wrote the letter that I did in hopes that you would leave the country, for the time had not yet arrived when you could safely be recognized by me as the rightful owner of Kilkargan. I have heard, however, that you have received a full pardon for past offences, and a restitution of your rights, and I am only too glad to be able to retire from the false position in which I was placed, and by which I incurred the hostility and dislike of my neighbours and tenants. As you know, I have lived an almost solitary life here, and have spent far less than the income of the estate. I am well aware that, acting as I have done as your trustee, you have a right to demand from me an account of the rents I have received; but I trust that you will not press this matter, as you'll at once come in for the receipt of the rents; and I shall be enabled to live in comfort, in Dublin, upon the savings I have effected, and a small property I received as a younger brother's portion. You will, of course, understand why, during your stay here, I refrained from any outward demonstrations of affection for you. I felt that suspicions might have arisen, had I not done so, that you were my brother's son, in which case the estate would surely have been confiscated. Seeing that the bent of your inclinations was for an active and stirring life, and as the English army was barred to you, I thought it best that you should go abroad, and so be out of the way until the time should come when matters would so quieten down, in Ireland, that my influence might avail to secure an indemnity for you for serving in France, and enable me to hand over your estate to you. Your affectionate uncle, John O'Carroll. Gerald laughed aloud as he read the letter. "Is it good news, your honour?" Mike, who happened to be busy in the room, asked. "Nothing could be better. My dear uncle has heard that Lord Godolphin and the Earl of Galway have become my patrons, that the queen has restored to me my rights, and Mr. Counsellor Fergusson has taken up my case. He therefore declares that, as it was always his intention to restore the estate to me, as soon as I could safely return, he is now ready to do so, and only hopes that I will not insist upon his handing over the back rents; which, indeed, I question whether I could do, as the estate was granted to him, personally, by the Government. "However, of course I shall not press that. I shall be only too glad to obtain possession without the scandal of having to show, in the public courts, that my father's brother was a villain." "The ould fox!" Mike exclaimed indignantly. "I felt sure, when you told me what the counsellor had said, that he would wriggle out of it somehow. I would give all the gold pieces I have in my belt for half an hour's talk with him, with a good shillelah!" "Well, we can afford to let bygones be bygones, Mike. And after all, he did me a service, unwittingly, in sending me over to France. In the first place, I had three years of stirring life; in the next, I have made many good friends, and have gained the patronage of two powerful noblemen, without which I should have assuredly never come in for Kilkargan at all." "That is true for you, your honour. And without it, I might be still a private in O'Brien's regiment, instead of being your honour's body servant." "And friend, Mike." "Yes, sir, as you are good enough to say so." Mr. Fergusson put John O'Carroll's letter down, with a gesture of disgust, after he had read it. "It is what might have been expected from such a man," he said. "A traitor to the cause he once adhered to, false to his religion, and a usurper of his nephew's rights. "At any rate, Mr. O'Carroll, I congratulate you. It has prevented a grievous scandal from being made public, and the large expenditure entailed by such a case. You have now only to go down and take possession." "I shall write to my uncle, and give him a week to clear out, and to make what explanation he chooses of the change." Gerald wrote at once to his uncle. It was coldly worded, and showed unmistakably that he was, in no way, deceived by the professions in his letter. He told him that he considered it fair that he should retain the savings he had made, as he had personally been confirmed in the ownership of Kilkargan, the Government being ignorant that his brother had left a son. He said that he thought it would be more pleasant, for both of them, that they should not meet, and wished, therefore, that he would leave, before his arrival to take possession. John O'Carroll at once summoned the tenants, and astonished them by informing them that, he was glad to say, he was free at last to lay down the position he had held as owner of Kilkargan. That his brother James had left a son, whom they all knew as Desmond Kennedy, but whom he had been obliged to treat with coldness, lest suspicions should be excited as to his identity. Had this been known, he would assuredly have been proscribed as the son of a rebel, and debarred by law from any inheritance. He was delighted to say that the time had come when he could publicly acknowledge him, and place him in possession of the estate, as Her Majesty had granted him a special indemnity against the pains and penalties incurred by his father's act of rebellion and treason, and had restored to him his full rights. A burst of cheering, such as had not been heard in Kilkargan since James O'Carroll rode out, at the head of a troop raised among his tenantry, to fight for King James, greeted the announcement; and, for the first time since that event, John O'Carroll was, for the moment, popular. Subsequent reflection, and their knowledge of his character, soon dissipated that feeling; but in their joy at the announced approaching arrival of their new master, John O'Carroll rode away, with his followers, without the manifestation of hostility that would otherwise have attended his departure. Bonfires blazed all over the barony when Gerald rode in, accompanied by Mike. The tenants, and a number of the gentry who had known him when a boy, assembled at the castle to meet him; and even his father could not have met with a more enthusiastic welcome than that which was given him. The next day, Gerald wrote to the Duke of Berwick, telling him what had taken place, and resigning his commission in the Irish Brigade. "I intend," he said, "to abstain from all part in politics. Although no condition was made, in my pardon for serving abroad and in the restoration of my estate, I feel that, having accepted these favours, I must hold myself aloof from all plots against Queen Anne, though my heart will still be with him whom I hold to be my lawful sovereign. Unless a large army from France was landed here, I believe that any attempt at his restoration would only bring down fresh misery upon Ireland. But, should a force land that would render success almost a certainty, I should then, with the great bulk of my countrymen, join it." In due time he received an answer, approving the course he had taken. "I myself," the Duke said, "am under no delusions. With the ten regiments of the Irish Brigade, twenty thousand French troops, and arms sufficient to distribute to the whole country, I believe that Ireland and Scotland might again come under the rule of the Stuarts; but nothing short of such a force would be of any avail. So convinced was I of this that, in 1691, after the successful defence of Limerick, I saw that the cause was for the time lost, and that further resistance would only prove disastrous to Ireland. I therefore resigned my command, and went over to France to serve as a volunteer, and took no part in the war at home. Therefore, I think that you are fully justified in the course you have taken. When the present war, which I think is approaching its end, terminates, and you can again visit France, I trust that I shall see you; and I am sure that you will receive the heartiest of welcomes from your comrades in the Brigade." Gerald followed out strictly the line he had laid down for himself, and kept aloof from the plots and conspiracies that, for years, agitated the country, entailing disaster upon all concerned in them. Mike was installed as his body servant, and majordomo of his household; and Norah Rooney as housekeeper at the castle. Three years later, in 1713, the treaty of Utrecht brought the war to an end. Communications being restored between the two countries, Gerald wrote to the Baron de Pointdexter, and told him of the changes which had taken place in his position. He received a warm letter in reply, urging him to go over and pay him and his son-in-law a visit. But Gerald had had enough of travelling, and wrote to say that he could not leave his estate, as there was much to look after. Letters were, however, frequently exchanged between them, and when, three years later, Gerald married the daughter of the Mr. Kennedy he had visited near Cork, a present of a superb set of jewels, the joint gift of the baron and Monsieur de la Vallee, arrived for the bride. After the conclusion of the peace, some of the Irish regiments were disbanded, and as the British Government, wiser than before, offered a free pardon to all men and officers who would return, many availed themselves of it; and among these was O'Neil, who delighted Gerald by riding up, one day, to the castle. "You did not expect to see me again, Kennedy; or, as I hear we ought to call you, O'Carroll. Not knowing where I should find you, I took the liberty of writing to Baron de Pointdexter, and he informed me of your good luck, and your change of name." "And you have left the French service altogether, O'Neill?" "Yes, and glad enough I am that I shall be able to end my days at home." "And what are you thinking of doing?" "Anything I can get." "Well, O'Neil, I have some interest with the lord lieutenant. As I am no longer regarded as one likely to join in plots, I think that, were I to ride with you to Dublin after you have been here for a time; and speak to him for you, as one who had seen the errors of his ways, and was anxious to live peacefully, he would procure you some appointment." O'Neil stayed there for three weeks, and they then rode to Dublin. The lord lieutenant granted Gerald's request, and gave O'Neil an appointment which would enable him to live in comfort; knowing that there is nothing, for keeping a man peaceable, like giving him something to do; and that an idle man is a dangerous man, while one who has a comfortable position can be trusted to hold himself aloof from any business that might imperil his place. O'Neil thoroughly justified Gerald's recommendation of him, and, a couple of years after his return, married a young and well-endowed widow; and, to the end of his life, abstained carefully from mixing himself up, in any way, in politics. Gerald saw the failure of Prince Charlie's expedition to Scotland; and the terrible disasters, that befell all who had taken part in the movement, showed him the wisdom of the course he had adopted--of standing aloof from all intrigues in favour of the descendants of James the Second. THE END.	{ "id": "18349" }
1	: A Shipwreck.	A few miles to the south of Bray Head, on the crest of a hill falling sharply down to the sea, stood Castle Davenant, a conspicuous landmark to mariners skirting the coast on their way from Cork or Waterford to Dublin Bay. Castle Davenant it was called, although it had long since ceased to be defensible; but when it was built by Sir Godfrey Davenant, who came over with Strongbow, it was a place of strength. Strongbow's followers did well for themselves. They had reckoned on hard fighting, but the Irish were too much divided among themselves to oppose any serious resistance to the invaders. Strongbow had married the daughter of Dermid, Prince of Leinster, and at the death of that prince succeeded him, and the greater portion of Leinster was soon divided among the knights and men-at-arms who had followed his standard. Godfrey Davenant, who was a favourite of the earl, had no reason to be dissatisfied with his share, which consisted of a domain including many square miles of fertile land, stretching back from the seacoast. Here for many generations his descendants lived, for the most part taking an active share in the wars and disturbances which, with scarcely an interval of rest, agitated the country. The castle had continued to deserve its name until forty years before the time this story commences, when Cromwell's gunners had battered a breach in it, and left it a heap of smoking ruins. Walter Davenant had died, fighting to the last, in his own hall. At that time, the greater part of his estate was bestowed upon officers and soldiers in Cromwell's army, among whom no less than four million acres of Irish land were divided. Had it not been that Walter Davenant's widow was an Englishwoman, and a relation of General Ireton, the whole of the estate would have gone; but his influence was sufficient to secure for her the possession of the ruins of her home, and a few hundred acres surrounding it. Fortunately, the dowry which Mrs. Davenant had brought her husband was untouched, and a new house was reared within the ruins of the castle, the new work being dovetailed with the old. The family now consisted of Mrs. Davenant, a lady sixty-eight years old; her son Fergus, who was, when Cromwell devastated the land, a child of five years; his wife Katherine, daughter of Lawrence McCarthy, a large landowner near Cork; and their two sons, Walter, a lad of sixteen, and Godfrey, twelve years old. Two miles west of the castle stood a square-built stone house, surrounded by solidly-constructed barns and outbuildings. This was the abode of old Zephaniah Whitefoot, the man upon whom had been bestowed the broad lands of Walter Davenant. Zephaniah had fought stoutly, as lieutenant in one of Cromwell's regiments of horse, and had always considered himself an ill-treated man, because, although he had obtained all the most fertile portion of the Davenant estate, the old family were permitted to retain the castle, and a few hundred acres by the sea. He was one of those who contended that the Amalekites should be utterly destroyed by the sword, and he considered that the retention of the corner of their domains, by the Davenants, was a direct flying in the face of the providence who had given them into the hands of the faithful. Not that, had he obtained possession of the ruined castle, Zephaniah Whitefoot would have repaired it or set up his abode there. The followers of Cromwell had no eyes for the beautiful. They were too much in earnest to care aught for the amenities of life, and despised, as almost sinful, anything approximating to beauty, either in dress, person, or surroundings. The houses that they reared, in this land of which they had taken possession, were bare to the point of ugliness, and their interior was as cold and hard as was the exterior. Everything was for use, nothing for ornament. Scarce a flower was to be seen in their gardens, and laughter was a sign of levity, to be sternly repressed. Their isolation, in the midst of a hostile population, caused them no concern whatever. They cared for no society or companionship, save that of their own households, which they ruled with a rod of iron; and an occasional gathering, for religious purposes, with the other settlers of their own faith. They regarded the Irish as Papists, doomed to everlasting perdition, and indeed consigned to that fate all outside their own narrow sect. Such a people could no more mix with the surrounding population than oil with water. As a rule, they tilled as much ground in the immediate vicinity of their houses as they and their families could manage, and the rest of the land which had fallen into their possession they let, either for a money payment, or, more often, for a portion of the crops raised upon it, to such natives as were willing to hold it on these terms. The next generation had fallen away somewhat from their fathers' standards. It is not in human nature to stand such a strain as their families had been subjected to. There is an innate yearning for joy and happiness, and even the sternest discipline cannot keep man forever in the gloomy bonds of fanaticism. In most cases, the immediate descendants of Cromwell's soldiers would gladly have made some sort of compromise, would have surrendered much of their outlying land to obtain secure and peaceful possession of the rest, and would have emerged from the life of gloomy seclusion, in which they found themselves; but no whisper of any such feeling as this would be heard in the household of Zephaniah Whitefoot, so long as he lived. He was an old man now, but as hard, as gloomy, and as unlovable as he had been when in his prime. His wife had died very many years before, of no disease that Zephaniah or the doctor he called in could discover, but, in fact, of utter weariness at the dull life of repression and gloom which crushed her down. Of a naturally meek and docile disposition, she had submitted without murmuring to her husband's commands, and had, during her whole married life, never shocked him so much as she did the day before her death, when, for the first time, she exhibited the possession of an opinion of her own, by saying earnestly: "You may say what you like, Zephaniah, but I do think we were meant to have some happiness and pleasure on earth. If we were intended to go through life without laughing, why should we be able to laugh? Oh, how I should like to hear one hearty, natural laugh again before I die, such as I used to hear when I was a girl!" Jabez Whitefoot inherited his mother's docility of disposition, and, even when he grew to middle age, never dreamt of disputing his father's absolute rule, and remained strictly neutral when his wife, the daughter of an old comrade of his father, settled a few miles away, fought stoutly at times against his tyranny. "You are less than a man, Jabez," she would say to him, indignantly, "to put up, at your age, with being lectured as if you were a child. Parental obedience is all very well, and I hope I was always obedient to my father; but when it comes to a body not being permitted to have a soul of his own, it is going too far. If you had told me that, when I became your wife, I was to become the inmate of a dungeon for the rest of my existence, I wouldn't have had you, not if you had been master of all the broad lands of Leinster." But, though unable to rouse her husband into making an effort for some sort of freedom, Hannah Whitefoot had battled more successfully in behalf of her son, John. "You have had the management of your son, sir, and I will manage mine," she said. "I will see that he does not grow up a reprobate or a Papist, but at least he shall grow up a man, and his life shall not be as hateful as mine is, if I can help it." Many battles had already been fought on this point, but in the end Hannah Whitefoot triumphed. Although her husband never, himself, opposed his father's authority, he refused absolutely to use his own to compel his wife to submission. "You know, sir," he said, "you had your own way with my mother and me, and I say nothing for or against it. Hannah has other ideas. No one can say that she is not a good woman, or that she fails in her duty to me. All people do not see life from the same point of view. She is just as conscientious, in her way, as you are in yours. She reads her Bible and draws her own conclusions from it, just as you do; and as she is the mother of the child, and as I know she will do her best for it, I shall not interfere with her way of doing it." And so Hannah won at last, and although, according to modern ideas, the boy's training would have been considered strict in the extreme, it differed very widely from that which his father had had before him. Sounds of laughter, such as never had been heard within the walls of the house, since Zephaniah laid stone upon stone, sometimes issued from the room where Hannah and the child were together alone, and Zephaniah was out with Jabez about the farm; and Hannah herself benefited, as much as did the child, by her rebellion against the authorities. Jabez, too, was conscious that home was brighter and pleasanter than it had been, and when Zephaniah burst into a torrent of indignation, when he discovered that the child had absolutely heard some fairy stories from its mother, Jabez said quietly: "Father, I wish no dispute. I have been an obedient son to you, and will continue so to my life's end; but if you are not satisfied with the doings of my wife, I will depart with her. There are plenty who will be glad to let me a piece of land; and if I only work there as hard as I work here, I shall assuredly be able to support her and my boy. So let this be the last word between us." This threat put an end to the struggle. Zephaniah had, like most of his class, a keen eye to the main chance, and could ill spare the services of Jabez and his thrifty and hard-working wife; and henceforth, except by pointed references, in the lengthy morning and evening prayers, to the backsliding in his household, he held his peace. Between the Castle and Zephaniah Whitefoot there had never been any intercourse. The dowager Mrs. Davenant hated the Cromwellite occupier of her estate, not only as a usurper, but as the representative of the man who had slain her husband. She never alluded to his existence, and had always contrived, in her rides and walks, to avoid any point from which she could obtain so much as a distant view of the square, ugly house which formed a blot on the fair landscape. She still spoke of the estate as if it extended to its original boundaries, and ignored absolutely the very existence of Zephaniah Whitefoot, and all that belonged to him. But when her son and Jabez grew to man's estate, at about the same period, they necessarily at times crossed each other's paths; and as in them the prejudices and enmities of their elders were somewhat softened, they would, when they met on the road, exchange a passing nod or a brief "Good morning." Another generation still, and the boys of the two houses met as friends. Thanks to his mother's successful rebellion, John Whitefoot grew up a hearty, healthy boy, with a bright eye, a merry laugh, and a frank, open bearing. "One would think," his grandfather remarked angrily one day, as the boy went out, whistling gaily, to fetch in a young colt Jabez was about to break, "that John was the son of a malignant, or one of the men of Charles Stuart, rather than of a God-fearing tiller of the soil." "So long as he fears God, and walks in the right way, he is none the worse for that, father," Jabez said stoutly; "and even you would hardly say that his mother has failed in her teachings in that respect. I do not know that, so long as one has the words of Scripture in his heart, he is any the better for having them always on his lips; in other respects, I regret not that the boy should have a spirit and a fire which I know I lack myself. Who can say what may yet take place here! The Stuarts are again upon the throne, and, with James's leaning towards Papacy, there is no saying whether, some day, all the lands which Cromwell divided among his soldiers may not be restored to their original possessors, and in that case our sons may have to make their way in other paths of life than ours; and, if it be so, John will assuredly be more likely to make his way than I should have done." "We would never surrender, save with our lives, what our swords have won. We will hold the inheritance which the Lord has given us," the old man said fiercely. "Yes, father; and so said those whose lands we have inherited. So said Walter Davenant, of whose lands we are possessed. It will be as God wills it. He has given to us the lands of others, and it may be that he will take them away again. The times have changed, father, and the manners; and I am well pleased to see that John, while I am sure he is as true to the faith as I am myself, will take broader and, perhaps, happier views of life than I have done." Zephaniah gave a snort of displeasure. He grieved continually at the influence which his daughter-in-law exercised over her son, and which now extended clearly to her husband; but Jabez was now a man of five-and-forty, and had lately shown that, in some respects at least, he intended to have his way, while Zephaniah himself, though still erect and strong, was well-nigh eighty. "Remember, Jabez," he said, "that it goes hard with those who, having set their hands to the plough, turn aside." "I shall not turn aside, father," Jabez said quietly. "I have gone too long along a straight furrow to change now; but I am not ill pleased that my son should have a wider scope. I trust and believe that he will drive his furrow as straight as we have done, although it may not be exactly in the same line." But neither Zephaniah nor old Mrs. Davenant knew that their respective grandsons had made friends, although both the boys' fathers knew, and approved of it, although for somewhat different reasons. "The Whitefoot boy," Mr. Davenant had said to his wife, "is, I fancy from what I have seen of him, of a different type to his father and grandfather. I met him the other day when I was out, and he spoke as naturally and outspokenly as Walter himself. He seems to have got rid of the Puritanical twang altogether. At any rate, he will do Walter no harm; and, indeed, I should say that there was a solid good sense about him, which will do Master Walter, who is somewhat disposed to be a madcap, much good. Anyhow, he is a better companion for the boy than the lads down in the village; and there is no saying, wife, how matters may go in this unhappy country. It may be that we may come to our own again. It may be that we may lose what is left to us. Anyhow, it can do no harm to Walter that he should have, as a friend, one in the opposite camp." Somewhat similar was the talk between Hannah and Jabez, although, in their case, the wife was the speaker. "John has told me, Jabez, that he has several times met young Davenant, and that the boy is disposed to be friendly with him; and he has asked me to speak with you, to know whether you have any objection to his making a friend of him." "What do you say, Hannah?" Jabez asked cautiously. "My father, I fear, would not approve of it." "Your father need know nothing about it, Jabez. He is an old man and a good man, but he clings to the ways of his youth, and deems that things are still as they were when he rode behind Cromwell. I would not deceive him did he ask; but I do not see that the matter need be mentioned in his presence. It seems to me that it will be good for John to be friends with this boy. He is almost without companionship. We have acquaintance, it is true, among the other settlers of our faith, but such companionship as he has there will not open his mind or broaden his views. We are dull people here for a lad. Had we had other children it might have been different. "I have heard my mother speak of her life as a girl, in England, and assuredly it was brighter and more varied than ours; and it seems not to me that the pleasures which they had were sinful, although I have been taught otherwise; but, as I read my Bible, I cannot see that innocent pleasures are in any way denied to the Lord's people; and such pleasure as the companionship of the young Davenant can give John will, I think, be altogether for his good." "But the lad is a Papist, Hannah." "He is, Jabez; but boys, methinks, do not argue among themselves upon points of doctrine; and I have no fear that John will ever be led from the right path, nor indeed, though it is presumption for a woman to say so, do I feel so sure as our ministers that ours is the only path to heaven. We believe firmly that it is the best path, but others believe as firmly in their paths; and I cannot think, Jabez, that all mankind, save those who are within the fold of our church, can be condemned by the good Lord to perdition." "Your words are bold, Hannah, and I know not what my father and the elders of the church would say, were they to hear them. As to that I will not argue, but methinks that you are right in saying that the companionship of the young Davenant will do our boy no harm. "But the lad must have his father's consent. Though I reckon that we could count pounds where they could count shillings, yet, in the opinion of the world, they assuredly stand above us. Moreover, as it is only in human nature that they should regard us as those who have despoiled them, John must have no dealings with their son without their consent. If that be given, I have nought to say against it." And so John told Walter, next time they met, and learned in reply that Walter had already obtained his father's consent to going out rambles with him; so the boys became companions and friends, and each benefited by it. To John, the bright, careless ease and gaiety of Walter's talk and manner were, at first, strange indeed, after the restraint and gloom of his home; but in time he caught something of his companion's tone, until, as has been said, his altered manner and bearing struck and annoyed his grandfather. On the other hand, the earnestness and solidity of John's character was of benefit to Walter; and his simple truthfulness, the straightforwardness of his principles, and his blunt frankness in saying exactly what he thought, influenced Walter to quite as large an extent as he had influenced John. So the companionship between the lads had gone on for two years. In fine weather they had met once or twice a week, and had taken long rambles together, or, throwing themselves down on the slopes facing the sea, had talked over subjects of mutual interest. Walter's education was far in advance of that of his companion, whose reading, indeed, had been confined to the Scriptures, and the works of divines and controversialists of his own church, and whose acquirements did not extend beyond the most elementary subjects. To him, everything that Walter knew was novel and strange; and he eagerly devoured, after receiving permission from his mother, the books which Walter lent him, principally histories, travels, and the works of Milton and Shakespeare. As to the latter, Hannah had at first some scruples; and it was only after setting herself, with great misgivings as to the lawfulness of the act, to peruse the book, that she suffered her son to read it. The volume only contained some ten of Shakespeare's plays; and Hannah, on handing the book to her son, said: "I do not pretend, John, to understand all that is written there, but I cannot see that there is evil in it. There are assuredly many noble thoughts, and much worldly wisdom. Did I think that your life would be passed here, I should say that it were better for you not to read a book which gives a picture of a life so different from what yours would be; but none can say what your lot may be. And, although I have heard much about the wickedness of the stage, I can see no line in this book which could do harm to you. I do not see it can do you much good, John, but neither do I see that it can do you any harm; therefore, if you have set your mind on it, read it, my boy." It was a stormy evening in the first week of November, 1688. The wind was blowing in fierce gusts, making every door and casement quiver in Davenant Castle, while, between the gusts, the sound of the deep roar of the sea on the rocks far below could be plainly heard. Mrs. Davenant was sitting in a high-backed chair, on one side of the great fireplace, in which a pile of logs was blazing. Her son had just laid down a book, which he could no longer see to read, while her daughter-in-law was industriously knitting. Walter was wandering restlessly between the fire and the window, looking out at the flying clouds, through which the moon occasionally struggled. "Do sit down, Walter," his mother said at last. "You certainly are the most restless creature I ever saw." "Not always, mother; but I cannot help wondering about that ship we saw down the coast, making for the bay. She was about ten miles out, and seemed to be keeping her course when I saw her last, half an hour ago; but I can see, by the clouds, that the wind has drawn round more to the north, and I doubt much whether she will be able to gain the bay." "In that case, Walter," his father said, "if her captain knows his business, he will wear round and run down for Waterford. "I agree with you," he continued, after walking to the window and watching the clouds, "that a vessel coming from the south will hardly weather Bray Head, with this wind." He had scarcely spoken when the door opened, and one of the servants entered. "Your honour, a boy has just come up from the village. He says that John Considine sent him to tell you that a large ship is driving in to shore, and that he thinks she will strike not far from the village." "Why, on earth," Mr. Davenant exclaimed, "doesn't he tack and stand out to sea!" "The boy says her foremast is gone, and they have lost all management of her." "In that case, God help them! There is little chance for them on this rocky coast. However, I will go down at once, and see if anything can be done. "Katherine, do you see that there are plenty of hot blankets ready, in case any of the poor fellows are washed ashore. I shall, of course, send them up here. "I suppose, Walter, you will come down with me." But Walter had already disappeared, having slipped off as soon as he had heard the message. "Don't let that boy get into mischief, Fergus," old Mrs. Davenant said. "I am afraid, mother, he is beyond me," her son said, with a smile. "No Davenant yet could ever keep out of mischief, and Walter is no exception. However, fortunately for us, we generally get out of scrapes as easily as we get into them." "Not always, Fergus," she said, shaking her head. "No, not always, mother; but exceptions, you know, prove the rule." "Well, Godfrey, do you want to go?" he asked the younger boy, who had risen from the table, and was looking eagerly at him. "Of course you do; but, mind, you must keep close to me. "Ah, Father John!" he broke off, as an ecclesiastic, muffled up to the throat in wrappings, entered the room. "Are you going down, too?" "Assuredly I am, Fergus. You don't think a trifle of wind would keep me from doing my duty?" In another two minutes, the two men and Godfrey sallied out. They staggered as the wind struck them, and Godfrey clung to his father's arm. Not a word was spoken as they made their way down the steep descent to the village, which consisted of about a dozen fishermen's huts. Indeed, speaking would have been useless, for no word would have been heard above the howling of the storm. The vessel was visible to them, as they made their way down the hill. She was a complete wreck. The light of the moon was sufficient for them to see that she had, as the boy said, lost her foremast. Her sails were in ribbons, and she was labouring heavily in the sea, each wave that struck her breaking over her bows and sweeping along her deck. There was no hope for her. She could neither tack nor wear, and no anchor would hold for a moment on that rocky bottom, in such a sea. On reaching the village, they joined a group of fishermen who were standing under the shelter of the end of a cottage. "Can nothing be done, Considine?" Mr. Davenant shouted, in the ear of one of the fishermen. "Not a thing, yer honour. She has just let drop one of her anchors." "But they could not hope it would hold there," Mr. Davenant said. "Not they, your honour, onless they were mad. They hoped it would hoult so as to bring her head round; but the cable went, as soon as the strain came. I saw her head go sharp up to the wind, and then fall off again; not that it would have made much difference in the end, though it would have given them half an hour longer of life." "Could we get a boat off with a line, if she strikes?" "Look at the sea, yer honour. Mr. Walter has been asking us; but there's no boat could get through that surf, not if all Ireland dipinded on it." "Where is Walter?" "Sure and I can't tell ye, yer honour. He was here a few minutes since; but what's come of him is more nor I can tell ye." "He went off with Larry Doolan," a boy, who was standing next to the fisherman, shouted. "Then, as sure as fate, they are up to some mischief," Mr. Davenant said. "Walter is bad enough by himself, but with Larry to help him, it would take a regiment to look after them." "They can't be in much mischief tonight, yer honour," the fisherman said. "Look, sir, she's coming in fast. She draws a power of water, and she will strike in a minute or two." "She seems crowded with men. Can nothing be done to help them?" the priest asked. "Nothing, your reverence. Praying for them is the only thing that can help the poor sowls now." "You are sure it's not possible to launch a boat, Considine?" "Look for yourself, yer honour. There's not a boat on the coast that could get through them breakers." "There she goes." Even above the noise of the storm, a loud cry was heard, and the crash of breaking timber as, with the shock, the main and mizzen masts, weakened by the loss of the foremast, went over the sides. The next great wave drove the vessel forward two or three fathoms. "That's her last move," Considine said. "The rocks will be through her bottom, now." "They are off," a boy shouted, running up. "Who are off?" Considine asked. "The young squire and Larry Doolan." "Off where?" Mr. Davenant exclaimed. "Off in the curragh, yer honour. Me and Tim Connolly helped them carry it round the Nose, and they launched her there. There they are. Sure you can see them for yourself." The party rushed out from the shelter, and there, a quarter of a mile along on the right, a small boat was seen, making its way over the waves. "Be jabers, yer honour, and they have done it," the boatmen said, as Mr. Davenant gave a cry of alarm. "I didn't think of the curragh, and if I had, she could not have been launched here. Mr. Walter has hit on the only place where there was a chance. Under the shelter of the Nose it might be done, but nowhere else." The Nose was a formidable reef of rocks, running off from a point and trending to the south. Many a ship had gone ashore on its jagged edge, but, with the wind from the northeast, it formed somewhat of a shelter, and it was under its lee that Walter and Larry had launched the curragh. The curragh is still found on the Irish coast. It is a boat whose greatest width is at the stern, so much so that it looks like a boat cut in two. The floor is almost flat, and rises so much to the bow that three or four feet are entirely out of water. They are roughly built, and by no means fast, but they are wonderfully good sea boats, for their size, and can live in seas which would swamp a boat of ordinary build. Walter had, with the assistance of Larry Doolan, built this boat for going out fishing. It was extremely light, being a mere framework covered with tarred canvas. As soon as Walter had reached the village, and found that the fishermen considered that no boat could possibly be put out, he had found and held a consultation with Larry. "Do you think the curragh could go out, Larry?" "Not she, yer honour. She would just be broke up like an eggshell with them breakers." "But she might float, if we got beyond them, Larry." "She might that," Larry agreed, "seeing how light she is." "Well, will you go with me, Larry?" "Sure and I would go anywhere with yer honour, but she could never get out." "I am thinking, Larry, that if we carry her along beyond the Nose, we might find it calmer there." "Well, we might," Larry agreed. "At any rate, we can try." So, calling together two or three other boys, they had lifted the light boat and carried it with its oars along the shore, until they got beyond the Nose; but even here, it was a formidable business to launch her, for, although the rocks broke the full force of the seas, throwing the spray hundreds of feet up in the air, the waves poured through the intervals, and dashed over the lower rocks in such masses that formidable waves rolled in to the shore. After much consultation, the boys agreed that their best plan was to scramble out on the rocks as far as possible, so as to launch the boat beyond the break of the surf. It was a hazardous enterprise, and the whole party were, several times, nearly washed into the water as they struggled out. At last, they reached a spot beyond which they could go no farther, as a deep passage was here broken in the rock. But they were now beyond the line of breakers. After several vain efforts to launch the boat, in each of which she narrowly escaped destruction, they agreed that the only plan was, after a wave passed, to drop her on to a flat rock, which then showed above the water, and to jump into her. The two boys on shore were to hold the head rope, to prevent her being dashed towards the land by the next wave, while Larry worked with the oars to get her away from the ridge. The moment the wave had passed under them, the head rope was to be thrown off. This plan was carried out. The two boys had but just time to jump into the boat and get out their oars, when the next wave lifted the boat high on its crest. The lads holding the rope were nearly torn from the rock, but they held on till the strain ceased, then they threw in the rope, and Walter and Larry bent to their oars. "Row easy, Larry," Walter said, as the next wave passed under them, "and put her head to each wave." Terrible as was the sea, the curragh floated buoyantly over it, though several times, as she rose to the steep waves, Walter thought that she would be thrown right over. The worst part of their task was over, when they got beyond the end of the Nose, for up to that point they were forced to row across the course of the waves, and continually to turn the boat, to face the great masses of water which ran between the rocks. But once beyond the end of the reef they turned her head north, and rowed straight towards the ship. "She has struck, Master Walter," Larry said, glancing over his shoulder, "and her masts are gone." "Lay out, then, Larry, there's no time to lose." But, in spite of their efforts, the boat moved but slowly through the water, for the wind caught her high bow with such force that, at times, it needed all their strength and skill to keep her head straight. At last they were close to the ship, which already showed signs of breaking up. They ranged up alongside of it. "Fasten a line to a keg and throw it in," Walter shouted. In a minute, a keg was thrown overboard with a line attached. As soon as it drifted a little way from the vessel's side, they hauled it into the boat. "Now, back, Larry; these waves would sink us in a moment, if we turn our stern to them." The wreck lay within a hundred yards of the shore, and the boat backed until close to the line where the waves toppled over in a torrent of foam. "Now, Larry, keep her steady. We are as near as we dare go." Then Walter stood up in the boat, took the keg and a foot or two of line in his hand, and waited till the next wave passed under the boat. He swung the keg round his head, and hurled it towards the shore. Then he dropped into his seat, and gave two or three vigorous strokes, and, when safely beyond the line of breakers, sat quiet and watched the result. "They have missed it the first time," he said. "Look! They are going to run into the surf for it." The group on the shore joined hands, and the next time the keg was borne forward, in the tumble of foam, Considine ran forward and seized it. The back rush took him from his feet, but the others held on, and before the next wave came, the line was safely on the beach. A strong cable was soon pulled ashore and firmly fixed. A light line was attached to it, and the sailors at once began to pass along. "Shall we turn back now, Master Walter?" "We will keep near the wreck for a few minutes longer, Larry. She can't hold together long, and maybe we can pick somebody up." The vessel was indeed breaking up fast. Her stern was burst in, and the waves, as they poured in at the opening, smashed up the deck. Many of the crew had been washed overboard, and had instantly disappeared. As the boat approached the wreck, an officer, who had climbed the shrouds, shouted out: "Will your boat hold another?" "Yes," Walter shouted back. "She will hold two more." "I will try and swim to you," the officer said. He threw off the long cloak, in which he was wrapped, and unbuckled his sword and let it drop, unbuttoned and took off his military coat, and, with some difficulty, got rid of his high boots. "Can you come a bit nearer?" he shouted. "We daren't," Walter said. "A touch from one of those floating timbers would send us to the bottom." The officer waved his hand, and then sprang head foremost into the sea. So long was he in the water, that Walter began to think he must have struck against something, and was not coming up again; when suddenly he appeared, within twenty yards of the boat. They rowed towards him, instantly. "You must get in over the stern," Walter said. The officer was perfectly cool, and, placing his hands on the stern, drew himself partly over it, and Walter, grasping his hand, dragged him in. No sooner was he in, than Walter again hailed the wreck. "We can carry one more." But those who were still on board were huddled up in the bow, waiting their turn for the rope. "There is a big un coming now," Larry exclaimed. "That will finish her." A wave, towering far above its fellows, was indeed approaching. Higher and higher it rose. There was a wild cry from the wreck as it surged over it. When it had passed, the sea was covered with floating timbers, but the vessel was gone. "We can do nothing now," Walter said. "We daren't go in among that wreckage, and any who get hold of floating planks will drift ashore. "Now, Larry, back quietly, and let her drift down round the Nose. We must keep her head to the waves." Ten minutes, and they were abreast of the reef. As soon as they were past it, Walter gave the word, and they rowed along, under its shelter, to the point where they had embarked. "Now, sir," Walter said, "we will back her up to that rock. When we are close enough, you must jump." This was safely accomplished. "Now, Larry, row alongside when the next wave comes. We must both scramble out as well as we can." But by this time help was at hand. The boat had been anxiously watched from the shore, and when, on the disappearance of the wreck, she was seen to be making her way back to the Nose, Mr. Davenant, with Considine and the priest, and the boys who had assisted in getting her afloat, hurried along the shore to meet her, the rest of the fishermen remaining behind, to aid any who might be washed up from the wreck. As soon as it was seen that they intended to land at the spot where they had started, Considine and Mr. Davenant made their way along the rock, and joined the officer just as he leapt ashore. The boat came alongside on the top of the wave, and as this sank it grazed the rock and capsized, but Walter and Larry grasped the hands stretched out to them, and were hauled on to the rock, while the next wave dashed the curragh in fragments on the beach.	{ "id": "18356" }
2	: For James Or William.	"My dear Walter," his father exclaimed as he embraced his son, as he scrambled on shore, "you have behaved like a hero, indeed, but you oughtn't to have done it. "And you too, Larry. You both deserve a sound thrashing for the fright you have given us." "They may have frightened you, sir," the officer said; "but assuredly, I owe my life to these brave lads. I have scarcely thanked them yet, for indeed, until I felt my foot on the rock, I had but small hopes of reaching shore safely in that cock boat of theirs. After feeling that great ship so helpless against the waves, it seemed impossible that a mere eggshell could float over them. "My name, sir, is Colonel L'Estrange, at your service." "My name is Davenant, colonel, and I am truly glad that my son has rescued you; but the sooner you are up at my place, the better, sir. This is no weather for standing talking in shirtsleeves." They now made their way along the rock back to the shore, and then hurried to the village. There they learned that six men had succeeded in getting to shore along the rope, before the vessel broke up. Telling Larry he had best have a glass of hot spirits, and then turn into bed at once, and that he was to come up to the house the first thing in the morning, Mr. Davenant, with the priest, Colonel L'Estrange, and Walter made his way up to the house, to which the men who had reached the shore had been already taken. The party were met at the door by Mrs. Davenant, who had been extremely anxious, for Godfrey had been sent home by his father as soon as the wreck went to pieces, and had brought the news of Walter's doings, up to that time. "He is quite safe, Katherine," Mr. Davenant said, "but you mustn't stop, either to scold him or praise him, at present. "Hurry off, Walter, and get between the blankets. I will bring you up some hot spiced wine directly. "Katherine, this is Colonel L'Estrange, whom Walter has brought ashore in his boat. You will excuse him, at present, for he has been for hours exposed to the storm, and must be half frozen as well as half drowned. "Now, colonel, if you will come along with me, you will find a bed with hot blankets ready, and, I doubt not, a blazing fire. "Ah, here is the spiced wine. Take a draught of that before you go upstairs. You can have another, after you are in bed." Three more survivors from the wreck were presently brought up. They had been washed ashore on planks, as indeed had many others, but the rest had all been beaten to death against the rocks by the breakers. Walter slept late the next morning, and, when he came downstairs, found that the others had already finished breakfast. When he had eaten his meal, and listened to the gentle scolding which his mother gave him for risking his life, he joined his father, who was, with Colonel L'Estrange, pacing backwards and forwards on the terrace in front of the house. The first fury of the storm was over, but it still blew strongly, and a very heavy sea was running. "Ah, my young friend," Colonel L'Estrange said, advancing, "I am glad to see you, and to be able to thank you more warmly than I was able to do last night, when the very words seemed frozen on my lips, for having saved my life. It was a gallant deed, and one which your father may well be proud of. It showed not only bravery of the highest kind, but coolness and judgment, which are virtues even more rare. I predict a brilliant future for you, and if, in any way, my aid may be of use to you, believe me, it will be at your service." "It was well you were a good swimmer, sir," Walter said, "for we could not have helped you, if you had not been able to help yourself, for the sea was covered with pieces of wreck, and as the boat was only covered with canvas, the slightest touch from one of the jagged ends would have made a hole in it. I am very much obliged to you for your kind offer of assistance; but, at present, we have not made up our minds what I am to be. "Have we, father?" "No, indeed, Walter. You have told me that you would like, at any rate for a time, to see something of the world before settling down here for life; but it is no easy matter to say what is best for you to do. Ireland offers but little field for anyone's ambition. Since King James came to the throne, and especially since Tyrconnell became governor, things have been a little more favourable for us; and I have hopes, yet, that justice will be done to the Catholic population of this unhappy country. "Is it not monstrous, Colonel L'Estrange, that the very men who had a hand in the rebellion against King Charles the First, should still be in possession, during the reign of his son, of the lands which were taken from my father because he was loyal to his king? And so it is all over Ireland. The descendants of Cromwell's men lord it in the homes of those who were faithful to King Charles." "It certainly seems so, sir," Colonel L'Estrange said; "but I am no politician. I am simply a soldier, and obey orders; but I own that it does seem a cruel injustice, that the great portion of the lands of this country should be held by the descendants of Cromwell's soldiers, while the lawful owners, whose only fault was that they were loyal to their king, should still be dispossessed of it." "But I think better times are coming," Mr. Davenant said. "There can be no doubt of the king's leaning towards our religion. He has been restrained from carrying his goodwill towards us into effect, by his privy councillors and by the English party here, whose interest it is to prevent any change being made, and who constantly misrepresent the feelings of this country. From the days when Strongbow first landed, this island has been the prey of adventurers, whose only object has been to wrest the land from the native population." "But you are yourself a descendant of one of the early English settlers, Mr. Davenant." "That is true enough," Mr. Davenant said smiling, "and, no doubt, he was as bad as the rest of them; but, you see, we have held the land for some centuries now, and, like the other descendants of Strongbow's men, have come to look at matters from the Irish point of view, rather than the English. However, I hope for better times." "You haven't heard the news, then, about the Prince of Orange?" "No; what is the news?" Mr. Davenant asked. "There have been rumours, for years, that he intended to make a bid for the English throne; but I have heard nothing else." "There was a report, before I left London, that he has already sailed from Holland," Colonel L'Estrange replied; "and, indeed, I have no doubt the rumour is well founded." "But he will never succeed," Mr. Davenant said eagerly. "He will be put down as easily as Monmouth was." "I do not know," Colonel L'Estrange said gravely. "The Protestant feeling in England is very strong. Monmouth was vain and empty headed, and he wrecked his own cause. The Dutchman is a different sort of man altogether, and one thing is certain: if King James can make a mess of matters, he is sure to do so. The Stuarts have always been feeble and indecisive, and James is the most feeble and indecisive of them. If William succeeds in effecting a landing, I think his chance of success is a good one." "He may reign in England," Mr. Davenant broke in passionately, "but he will not reign in Ireland. "But forgive me," he broke off. "I forgot, for a moment, that you are an Englishman, and my guest." "You need not apologize, Mr. Davenant. As I said, I am a soldier and no politician. My ancestors were royalists, and I have no great love for the Dutch stadtholder, who will be supported in England by the class who rose against King Charles. At the same time, it is difficult to feel much enthusiasm for the Stuarts. The first was a pedant. The second threw away his chances, over and over again, by his duplicity and want of faith. The third was utterly selfish and unprincipled. The fourth is a gloomy bigot. Charles was, and James is, a pensioner of France. How can men be ready to sacrifice everything for such a race as this?" "That is not the way in which we look at it in Ireland," Mr. Davenant said. "The wars here are waged under various pretences. Someone is goaded into rebellion, false charges are preferred wholesale, or there is a religious pretext; but we all know what is at the bottom of them all, simply the greed of English adventurers for Irish land; and, not content with having dispossessed the ancient owners of three-fourths of the cultivated land of the country, they want the remainder, and under the pretence that we, the descendants of the early settlers, are in sympathy with our Irish neighbours, they have marked us out for destruction, and already a great portion of our estates is in the hands of Cromwell's men. So gross have been the abuses, that the commission, which the king appointed to inquire into the seizure of our estates, only ventured to sit one day, for the proofs brought forward were so overwhelmingly strong that it was seen at once that, did the inquiry continue, it would be made manifest to all the world that justice could be satisfied by nothing less than a clear sweep of all those men who have seized our estates. "If Ireland rises in favour of King James, it will not be for any love for the Stuarts; but it will be to recover the land which has been illegally wrested from us, and which, if Dutch William and his Whig adherents gain the upper hand, will be taken from us forever. The religious element will, of course, count for much. Already we have suffered persecution for our religion; and, if the Whigs could have their way, they would stamp it out utterly, with fire and sword. Things have looked better, during the last five or six years, than they have done since Cromwell first put foot in Ireland. We have begun to hope for justice. Tyrconnell has stood up for us, and, with the goodwill of James, has gained many concessions. We have now what we never had before, an Irish army. The land thieves have been fairly alarmed, for they have seen that the long delayed justice will be done us at last. Many have sold back their lands to the original owners, and have left the country. Others are only holding out for better terms. Another ten years of James's reign, and things would have righted themselves; but, if the Dutchman ascends the throne of England, there is no hope for Ireland, save in the sword." "Well, we must hope it will not come to that," Colonel L'Estrange said. "I am ready to fight the battles of England on the Continent, but civil war, with all its horrors, sickens me; and civil war here is not like our civil war in England. There were no race animosities there, no memory of cruel wrongs on one side or the other. Men fought for a principle, but there were no atrocities committed, on either side, like those which have devastated Germany. The peasant ploughed the land, and the trader kept open his shop unmolested. It is true that, towards the end, there were confiscations of the property of those who still continued the strife, and a few executions of individuals; but, taking it as a whole, no war has ever caused so little suffering, to the people at large, as did the civil war in England; but assuredly, a war in Ireland now, like those which have gone before, would be marked by the foulest atrocities, massacres, and destruction on both sides." "Yes," Mr. Davenant said, "I must own that, for downright brutal and bloody ferocity, the wars in Ireland rival those of the Huns." Walter had listened in silence to this conversation. His father now turned to him. "Have you heard whether Larry has recovered from his adventure of yesterday as well as you have?" "No, father, I have not heard anything about it. I came out here directly I finished my breakfast. How are the people who were brought up here?" "They are going on well, Walter, but they were all so bruised, as they were being drawn up through the surf, that it will be some days before any of them can leave their beds. "How many had you on board, colonel?" "I did not see the list of passengers, but there were twelve or fourteen aft, and, from what I saw, I should think as many more forward. There were twenty-three men in the crew. I suppose, altogether, there were some fifty on board." "Are you going to make a long stay in Ireland?" "No; I shall only remain here a week or two. I am the bearer of some letters from the king to Tyrconnell; and that reminds me that I must be making my way on to Dublin." "I will ride in with you," Mr. Davenant said. "I must tell my friends this news that you bring. It seems to me to be most serious. I will have a horse round for you here, in half an hour, if that will suit you." "Perfectly," Colonel L'Estrange replied. "That will just give me time to walk round to the village, to see the lad you call Larry, for I could not go without thanking him for the share he had in preserving my life. "Perhaps you will go down with me, Walter, and show me his house?" When they reached the shore, they found the whole population of the village engaged in dragging up the spars, planks, and pieces of timber with which the rocks were strewn. "There is Larry," Walter said. "It is evident that there's nothing the matter with him." Larry was, indeed, just coming up, dragging a piece of timber behind him; while, in his left hand, he held a large bundle of fragments of wood, of different sizes, which, as well as the timber, he was taking home for firing. "Larry, come here. The English gentleman wants to speak to you." The boy dropped his wood, and came up. "My lad," Colonel L'Estrange said, "I am greatly indebted to you for your work of last night. Take this," and he placed a purse of ten guineas in Larry's hand. "And remember that I am still greatly your debtor, and that if, at any future time, you should be in a position in which my aid may be useful, you have only to let me know, and I will stand your friend." The sum appeared to Larry to be enormous. "Long life to yer honour, and it's proud I am to have been of service to such a grand gentleman. It's thankful I am for your kindness, and if ever you want a boy to do a job for you, it's myself that will be proud to do it. As to yesterday, I just came because the young squire tould me to, and thankful I am that he got back safe to shore, for, if we had been drowned, I don't know whatever I should have said to the squire." Two days after the shipwreck, Walter and John Whitefoot met at the place which they had agreed on, when they last saw each other four days before. "I heard of your brave deed on the night of the storm, Walter. Everyone is talking of it; and even my grandfather, who has seldom a good word for any of you at the Castle, said that it was a noble deed. It was as much as I could do not to say, 'Yes, he is a friend of mine;' for I felt proud of you, I can tell you." "It is all nonsense, John. I have often been out in a curragh in bad weather, though never in quite such a storm as that; but, once launched, she rode lightly enough, and scarce shipped a spoonful of water." "I should like to have been there," John said; "but I should have been no use. My people have always been against my going down to the sea, deeming it a pure waste of time, except that they let me go down to swim. I can do that well, you know; but they have always forbidden my going out in boats. Now, you see, it is proved that it is not a waste of time, for you have been able to save many lives. The thought must make you very happy." "Well, I don't know that it does, particularly," Walter said carelessly. "Of course, I was glad at the time, but I have not thought much about it one way or the other, since. You see, the news that has come has driven everything else out of our heads." "Is it true, then, the report that we heard yesterday, that William of Orange has set out for England?" "Yes, it is true enough; and I am afraid, by what I hear, that it is likely to cause all sorts of troubles." "I suppose," John said gravely; "and of course, in this matter my people think differently from yours. You know we agreed that we would never talk on these subjects, but I am afraid the time is coming when there will be nothing else to be talked of." "I am afraid so, too, John. My father thinks that there will be civil war again." "Of course my grandfather is delighted," John said quietly. "He has been greatly disturbed in his mind, for some months, owing to the leanings of King James towards the Irish, which seem to point to his having to give up no small portion of the lands." "We thought so too, John; and although it is your father who would lose, and mine who would gain, I don't think that even you can deny that it would be reasonable. Your grandfather got the land from mine because he fought for Cromwell against the king, and Cromwell got the best of it. Well, it seems only reasonable that, when the king again came to the throne, those who fought for him should get their own again." "It does seem so, Walter, I must own; and I am sure I should not have cared, for myself, if the land was given back again to your father tomorrow. Then I suppose we should go back to England; and, as I know my grandfather has done well, and has laid by a good deal of money, they could take a farm there; and there would be more chance of their letting me enter upon some handicraft. I would rather that, by a great deal, than farming. All these books you have lent me, Walter, have shown me what great and noble deeds there are to be done in the world--I don't mean in fighting, you know, but in other ways. And they make the life here, toiling on the farm from sunrise to sunset, with no object save that of laying by every year more money, seem terribly empty and worthless. "By the way, my grandfather was, yesterday evening, rating my father because, instead of always keeping me hard at work, he allowed me once or twice a week to be away for hours wasting my time--which means, though he didn't know it, going about with you. My father said stoutly that he did not think the time was altogether wasted, for that, in the last two years, I had made a notable advance in learning, and he was satisfied that I had benefited much by these intervals of recreation. Thereupon my grandfather grumbled that I was too fond of reading, and that I was filling my mind with all sorts of nonsense, whereas true wisdom was to be found in one book only. "My father said that was true of religious wisdom, but that, for the advancement of the world, it was needed that men should learn other things. Of course, my grandfather had three or four texts ready at hand; but my father had him by saying: 'You see, father, all the commands issued to the Jews are not strictly applicable to us--for example, they were ordered not to use horses; and I do not remember that Cromwell felt that he was doing wrong, when he raised his ironsides.' That was a poser, and so the matter dropped." Ten days later, when the boys met, John said: "This is the last time we shall meet for some time, Walter, for I am going up to Derry to stay with a cousin of my father, who is settled there and exercises the trade of a currier. I said, some months ago, that I should like to learn a trade, but everyone was against it, then. They seemed to think that, as I should some day have the land, it was flying in the face of Providence to think of anything else. But I suppose the fact that everything is so unsettled now, and that there is no saying what may come of these events in England, may have made them think differently. "At any rate, my father said to me yesterday: 'We have been talking over what you said, about wishing to learn a trade. If all goes on well, there is no occasion for you to learn any business save that of farming; but none can say what the Lord may not have in store for us, or what troubles may come upon us. In any case, it will do you no harm to see a little of the world outside our farm; and, therefore, your grandfather and I have settled that you shall go for a few months to my cousin, who, as you know, is a currier in Derry. He has often written, asking you to go and stay with him, seeing that he has no children of his own. Learn what you can of his business; and if it should be that you find it more to your liking than farming, I should not be one to hold you back from following the bent of your inclinations. " 'But this is between ourselves. My father's ideas on these subjects you know, and it would cause much trouble, did he think that you had any idea of not following in the path in which he and I have trod. But to me it seems better that each should go on the path towards which his mind is turned--that is, when he has made quite sure, after long reflection and prayer, that it is no idle whim but a settled earnest desire. If, then, after your visit to your uncle, you feel that you are truly called to follow a life other than that you would lead here, I shall not oppose you. The Lord has blessed our labours. The land is fertile, and I can well provide the moneys that will be needful to start you, either in business with my cousin, or in such way as may appear best.' "I thanked him gravely, but indeed, Walter, I had difficulty in restraining myself from shouting with joy, for a life like that of my father and grandfather here would be very grievous to me. I have no desire to gain greater wealth than we have, but I long for a higher life than this." "I don't know, John," Walter said doubtfully. "Unless, as you say, these troubles make a difference, you will be a large landowner some day; and these bitternesses will die out in time, and you will take a very different position from that which your grandfather holds. Of course, we regard him as a usurper, but you know, in the third generation the grandson of a usurper becomes a legitimate monarch. My ancestors usurped the land from the native Irish by the sword, just as your grandfather did from us; but we came, in time, to be regarded as the natural lords of the soil, and so will you. But to be a currier! That strikes me as a tremendous come down!" "I care nothing about coming up or coming down," John said simply. "I long only for an honest mode of life, in which, instead of dwelling solitary, and seeing no one from year to year save at our Sabbath meetings, I may mix with others and take part in a more active and busy life. In itself, I do not suppose that the trade of a currier is a very pleasant one; but that matters little if, when work is done, one has leisure for some sort of communication with others, and for improving one's mind. It will be to me something like what going to court in London would be to you, Walter. I am most grieved about my mother. She will miss me sorely. "She said to me last night, 'I fear somewhat, John, that the course I have taken with you has greatly unfitted you for settling down here, as we have done before you; but although I shall miss you sadly, I do not blame myself for what I have done. I think myself, my son, that there are higher lives than that spent in tilling the soil from boyhood to old age. It is true the soil must be tilled. There must be ever hewers of wood and drawers of water; but God has appointed for each his place, and I think, my son, that you have that within you which would render the life with which your father and grandfather have been well contented an irksome one for you. " 'I have no fear that we shall be always separated. Your grandfather is an old man, and when the Lord pleases to take him, your father and I will be free to do as we choose, and can, if we like, dispose of this land and quit this troubled country, and settle in England or elsewhere, near where you may be. It is true that we shall get little for the land; for, broad as are its acres, who will give much for a doubtful title? But there is ample laid by for our old age, and I see not the sense of labouring incessantly, as does your grandfather, merely to lay up stores which you will never enjoy. Did I see any signs of a decrease in the bitter animosity which parties feel towards each other here, I might think differently; but there is no prospect of peace and goodwill returning in your time, and therefore, no object in your father and I toiling on for the rest of our lives, when the return of our labour will be of little worth to you. Such being so, I do not regret that your thoughts turn to the world of which you have read in books. The world is but a secondary consideration to us, 'tis true, but I can see no special goodness in a life of dull monotony.'" "I wonder where your mother got hold of her ideas, John. She is so different from most of your people." "She is indeed," John agreed. "It was from her mother that she received her teaching. I know she was not happy with her husband, who was as gloomy and fanatical as is my grandfather, and she ever looked back to the happy days of her girlhood in England. I think she did for my mother just what my mother has done for me, only the difference is that she never had sufficient influence with her husband to enable her to carry out her views for her daughter, while my mother--" "Has managed to have her own way," Walter laughed. "I suppose so, and that in spite of my grandfather. Certainly I owe everything to her, for I am sure, if it hadn't been for her, my father would never have ventured to oppose the old man, even so far as to let me know you. It makes one sad to think, Walter, that religion should sometimes make those who think most of it tyrants in their families. My grandfather is terribly earnest in his religion. There is no pretence or mistake about it; but, for all that, or rather because of it, he would, if he could, allow no one else to have a will or opinion of his own." "I don't think it's the religion, John, but the manner of the religion. My mother and grandmother are both as religious as anyone could be; but I don't think I ever heard either of them say a hard word of a soul. Their religion is a pleasure to them, and not a task, and I know that some years ago, when we had a priest who was always denouncing the Protestants, they very soon managed to get him changed for another. "What a funny thing it is, to be sure, that people should quarrel about their religion! After all, we believe all the same important things; and as to others, what does it matter, provided we all do our best in the way that seems right to us?" But this was too liberal for John. He had been brought up in too strait a sect to subscribe to such an opinion as this. "I do think it makes a difference, Walter," he said slowly. "I don't," Walter said. "It's just a matter of bringing up. If you had been born in the Castle, and I had been born in your place, you would have thought as I do, and I should have thought as you do; and of course, still more if you had been born in a Catholic country like Italy, where you would never have heard of Protestantism, and I had been born in a Protestant country like Holland, where I should never have had a chance of becoming a Catholic. Very few people ever change their religion. They just live and die as they have been born and educated." "It seems so," John said after a pause; "but the question is too deep for us." "Quite so," Walter laughed, "and I don't want to argue it. "Well, when are you going to start?" "I am off tomorrow morning. My father has an acquaintance in Dublin who is starting for Derry, and I am to go in his charge." For another hour the boys chatted together, and then, with mutual promises of writing regularly, whenever they had the chance, they said goodbye; and the following morning John started with his father to Dublin, and next day journeyed north towards Derry.	{ "id": "18356" }
3	: The King In Ireland.	On the 12th of November, a vessel arrived in Dublin with the news that William of Orange had landed at Torbay on the 5th. The news created the wildest excitement. The Protestants, who had been deeply depressed, by the apparent intention of James to hand back, to their original owners, the land which had been wrested from them, now took heart and began openly to arm. Upon the other hand, the Catholics felt that, if William and the Whigs succeeded to the chief power in England, their faith, their remaining property, and their lives were alike menaced, and they, too, prepared to fight to the last for all they held dear. Walter rode several times with his father into Dublin. The streets presented a strange spectacle. They were crowded with Protestant fugitives from the country districts. These had forsaken all, and flocked into Dublin, fearing that the Irish would retaliate for past grievances by a general massacre. The banks of the Liffey were crowded by these fugitives, who, with tears and cries, besought the captains of the vessels lying there to give them passage to England. All sorts of rumours of bloodshed, massacre, and destruction circulated through the city. The Protestants in the north were said to have fallen upon the Catholic population, and to have put them to the sword, while in the south and west it was said the Catholics had taken the same measures against the Protestants. Both reports were equally false, but they were generally believed, and added to the panic and dismay. In fact, however, both parties were waiting. The Protestants dared not commence hostilities until assured that William was firmly seated on the English throne, and ready to come to their assistance. The Catholics were equally desirous to maintain the peace, until assured that no hope remained save the sword. A month after John Whitefoot had left, Walter received a letter from him: Dear Friend Walter: You will have heard, no doubt, of the troubles that have arisen here. My father sent me here to learn a trade, but at present, all men's minds are so agitated that there is no talk save of arms and of fighting. My kinsman is as bad as the others. He spends the day going hither and thither among the townsfolk, and has been made an officer in one of the six companies which have been raised here, and pays no further heed to business. The town is mightily divided: the younger and more zealous spirits are all for fighting, while almost all the older and wealthier citizens are opposed to this. "This is how the trouble began. The Earl of Tyrconnell sent, as you know, three thousand soldiers to help King James, at the first news of the landing of the prince, and to do so he withdrew the regiment which was in garrison in this town. On the 7th of this month of December, the people here heard that the regiment of the Earl of Antrim was approaching the town to take the place of those troops. When the news arrived, there was a sort of panic in the town, and the news was spread that this regiment was intended to massacre the people. "Why this should be I do not know, and I cannot but think that the alarm was a false one. However, the regiment arrived on the river bank, and some of its officers crossed and entered the city. When they were in council with some of the leading citizens, a party of apprentices, with some of the rabble, shut the gates. For some time there was great debate. The older citizens were mostly in favour of admitting the earl's regiment. Why, they asked, should Derry alone defy the power of Tyrconnell and King James? If King William made his cause good, and came over to Ireland to aid the Protestants, it would be time enough for the men of Derry to join him, and to fight for their faith; but if they now stood alone, they could do no good to the cause of King William, and would bring destruction on themselves and their city. "But these arguments were of no avail. The apprentices and all the young men of the town, and the fugitives who had come in from the country round, were all for fighting, and so the gates were kept shut; and Lord Antrim, seeing that he could do nothing against such a strong place as Derry, marched away with his regiment. This seems to me a fair account of what has happened. What will come of it I know not; but, being a Protestant, my feelings would incline me to the side of William. Yet it seems to me that his friends here have acted hastily, in thus adventuring themselves against all the forces of King James, and that sore trouble is like to come upon the town. However, it is not for me to judge. I am as warm as any of them in defence of our religion, and shall try to do my best in case of need. I am sorry, dear Walter, that we have to take different sides in this quarrel, but of course we are each of the opinion of our elders, and must not blame each other for what is indeed not of our own choosing. "This is a fair city, standing on rising ground by a stately river, and with strong walls; and at any other time life would be very pleasant here, although living among so many people seems strange to me, after my life on the farm. I hear all sorts of tales about fighting in other parts, and of the slaughter of Protestants by rapparees, but know not whether they are true. As my cousin, who is an earnest man, is wholly taken up with the present affairs, and all business is at a stand, I have little to do, and spend much of my time by the river side, and have taken to fishing, which I like mightily, and yesterday I caught a fish weighing three pounds, and we had him for dinner. I often wish you were with me. Write me a long letter, and tell me all that you are doing. "Your affectionate friend, "John Whitefoot." Indeed, throughout all Ireland preparations for war were going on. All over the north, the Protestants were banding themselves in arms; and, under the excuse of some outrages, committed by a few isolated parties of peasants known as rapparees, were everywhere harrying the Catholics, carrying fire and sword into quiet villages, burning, slaying, and carrying off their grain and cattle. Throughout the whole of Ulster, Charlemont and Carrickfergus alone remained in the hands of King James's troops. England and Scotland had now accepted William as their king, and James had fled to France. With the exception of Ulster, Ireland remained staunch to King James. In the south Lord Inshiquin, and in Connaught Lord Kingston, had each raised corps among the Protestant settlers for William, and were the first to commence hostilities, and the latter, marching north, made an attack on Carrickfergus. Tyrconnell now issued commissions to several of the Catholic nobility and gentry, to raise troops for the king's service, and as the people responded to the call readily, some fifty regiments of foot and several troops of horse were soon raised. But though men were forthcoming in abundance, there was a great want of arms and all munitions of war. There were, in the government stores, only twenty thousand arms, and most of these were old weapons, that had been returned to store as unserviceable, and only about a thousand muskets were found to be of any use. There was no artillery or ammunition, and no money with which these necessaries could be purchased abroad. The gentry would have willingly contributed, but all had been well-nigh ruined by the confiscation of their property, and could do little towards filling the treasury. Never did a nation enter upon a war so badly provided with all necessaries as did Ireland, when she resolved to adhere to the cause of her king, and to resist the power of England and Scotland, aided by that of Holland and the Protestant States of Germany. Mr. Davenant had been one of the first to respond to the invitation of Tyrconnell, and had set about raising a troop of horse. He had no difficulty in getting the number of men in Bray and the surrounding villages, and the difficulty in mounting them was overcome by the patriotism of sundry gentlemen and citizens of Dublin, who willingly contributed their spare horses to the king's service. Their arms were various. Some had swords, some short pikes, while a few only had pistols; but the smiths everywhere toiled hard converting scythes and reaping hooks into swords and pikes, and before they were ready to take the field, the whole troop were provided with swords. Walter had eagerly begged his father to appoint him cornet of the troop, and Mr. Davenant might have yielded, had it not been for his wife's entreaties. Even old Mrs. Davenant, intensely loyal as she was to the cause of James, sided with her daughter in law. "Of course, Fergus, you will do your duty to the king. It would indeed be a shame for a Davenant to hold back; but, at Walter's age there can be no occasion for him, as yet, to take a commission. I am ready to give my son, as I gave my husband, to the king; and when Walter becomes a man, he too must go, if duty demands it; but for the present, assuredly there is no reason why such a boy should mix himself up in this unhappy struggle. Besides, if aught befalls you, it is to him that his mother will have to look in the future. There are hundreds and thousands of strong and active men in Ireland, and the necessity has not yet come for boys to take the field." So Walter, to his intense disappointment, was refused the cornetcy of the troop, but his father, who fully entered into his feelings, finally told him that, when the troop took the field, he should accompany him. "You are not to carry arms, Walter, or to mix yourself up in any way with it. You will be a sort of camp follower, you know; but you will see all that goes on, and will be able to prepare yourself to take your place in the ranks, if the war should, unhappily, go on for any time." With this Walter had to be satisfied; and, indeed, although somewhat disappointed at not being, at once, allowed to join the troop, he felt sure that it would not be very long before his father, once away from the influence of his wife and mother, would allow him to join. "May I take Larry with me, father? He would look after my horse, and would be useful to you for running messages, and all sorts of things. He wants to go very much. You see, his uncle and two or three of his cousins have joined the troop, and he would have joined, too, if you had not thought him too young." "The worst of you and Larry is, that you are always getting into some scrape together," Mr. Davenant said, with a smile. "But I should not get into scrapes on such a business as this," Walter said indignantly. "This is a serious affair, and of course, going with you, I should be very particular." "Yes, as long as I was close by, Walter. However, I don't mind your taking Larry. He would, as you say, be useful, and you will want somebody to look after your horse and act as your servant. We may be separated, sometimes, for the troop may be sent on detached service, when I could not take you with me." The permission to take Larry quite reconciled Walter to the downfall of his hopes of going as cornet, and, in high spirits, he hastened down to the village, to tell Larry that his father had consented to his accompanying him. All through January, Mr. Davenant was busy drilling his troop. Throughout all Ireland, both parties were preparing for the storm which was soon to burst. Lord Mountjoy, a Protestant nobleman, was sent with his regiment, which consisted for the most part of Protestants, to Derry. He held a meeting with the leading townspeople, who agreed to admit the Protestant soldiers, upon the condition that no more troops were sent. Accordingly, the Protestant troops, under Colonel Lundy, entered the town, and Lord Mountjoy assumed the governorship. Tyrconnell soon perceived that he had made a mistake in sending Mountjoy to Derry, for instead of overawing the inhabitants, his regiment had, in fact, become a part of the rebel garrison. He therefore recalled Mountjoy and sent him over to France, on the pretence of an embassy to King James, but, as soon as he arrived there, he was treacherously thrown into prison. The people of Derry received quantities of powder and arms from Scotland, and, on the 20th of February, the Prince of Orange was formally proclaimed king in Derry; and this example was followed throughout Ulster. This was, in fact, the beginning of the war. Anxious to save Ireland from the horrors of civil war, Lord Granard, and other Protestant noblemen of the council, joined Tyrconnell in issuing a proclamation, ordering the Protestant corps to lay down their arms; and as they did not obey, Lieutenant General Hamilton was despatched to the north, with a thousand regular troops and a considerable number of irregulars. These came up with the insurgents at Dromore, and defeated them with great slaughter. They rallied at Hillsborough, but again were defeated and scattered. Hamilton divided his force, and, marching through the north, reduced Ulster to submission, with the exception only of the fortified towns of Enniskillen and Derry. In the south General M'Carty was equally successful in clearing Munster of William's adherents, and defeated Lord Inshiquin in every encounter. On the 14th of March, Mr. Davenant, who had ridden into Dublin, returned in the evening with the news that the king had landed at Kinsale, two days before, with fifteen hundred Irish troops in the pay of France, and a hundred French officers, intended to aid in drilling the new levies. "I am glad, indeed, that he has arrived, for had he been met on the seas by the English fleet, all our hopes might have been dashed at a blow. Now that he is with us, it will rouse the enthusiasm of the people to the utmost. If he is wise, he will surely be able to unite all Ireland under him; save of course the fanatics of the north, who, however, can do nothing against the whole strength of the country, since Hamilton's little force, alone, has been sufficient to put down all opposition, save where they remain shut up behind the walls of Derry and Enniskillen. "It is not with them that we have to cope alone--they would be utterly powerless--it is with the army of England and Scotland we shall have to fight. Unfortunately we have no fleet, and they can land wherever they choose; but now the king is really among us, all who have hitherto wavered will join. Let England and Scotland choose their king as they will, but there is no reason why Ireland should desert its rightful monarch at their bidding." "When will the king arrive at Dublin, father?" "He goes first to Cork, Walter. Tyrconnell has set out, and will meet him there. They say he will be here in about ten days' time. The French ambassador, the Marquis d'Avaux, comes with him, and many French nobles." "Do you think, father, he will at once order that his friends shall receive the land again which was taken from them by Cromwell's soldiers?" "I hope not, my boy. It is his interest and not our own we must think of now; and if Ireland is to resist, successfully, the English and continental troops of Dutch William, we must be united--we must be Irishmen first, Catholics and Protestants afterwards. I trust that he will issue such proclamations as will allay the alarm of the Protestants, and bind us all together. "King James is not like his father. In no single case, since he came to the throne, has he broken his royal word once given; therefore, all may feel confidence in any promises he may make. I have, of course, no hope that anything he can say will influence the fanatics of Derry and Enniskillen, but we can afford to disregard them. They are entailing misery and suffering upon themselves, without the slightest benefit to the cause they advocate. If we beat the English, of course those places must finally surrender. If the English beat us, they will get their Dutch William as king, without any effort on their part. I think, myself, that it will be very unwise to attempt anything against those two places. The people there can shut themselves up in their walls, as long as they like, and by so doing can in no way harm us. If we take their towns, it will only add to the bad blood that already exists. Better by far leave them to themselves, until the main battle is fought out." On the 23rd, the news came that the king was to arrive in Dublin the next day, and Mr. Davenant, or, as he was now called, Captain Davenant, went over, with all the gentry of the neighbourhood, to meet him. King James was received with enthusiasm. Addresses were presented to him by the several public bodies, and by the clergy of the Established Church. His answer to these addresses gave satisfaction to all. He promised favour and protection to the Established Protestant Church; issued an invitation to the Protestants who had fled the kingdom to return to their homes, and assured them of safety and his particular care; and he commanded that, with the exception of the military, no Catholics should carry arms in Dublin. Finally, he summoned a parliament to meet him in Dublin on the 7th of May. One day, a messenger arrived with a despatch for Captain Davenant. "We are to move into Dublin, tomorrow, Walter," he said when he read it. "We are to take the field at once. The king himself is going to march in command of us against Derry. I think his majesty is wrong; and I know that Tyrconnell has argued strongly against his intention. There are three reasons against it. First, as I told you, I think it were better to leave Derry alone, until the main issue is settled. Secondly, King James has no military experience whatever, and if ought goes wrong with the expedition, he will lose prestige. Thirdly, although it were well for him to be with the army when it fights a foreign foe, it were better that he should not lead it against men who are, however much they may rebel against him, his own subjects. "I know Tyrconnell has set forth these objections to him; but, unhappily, obstinacy is a fault of all the Stuart race, and it generally happens that they are most obstinate when most wrong. However, I trust that when Derry sees so strong a force marching against it, it will open its gates without resistance. A siege can only entail horrible suffering on the town; and that suffering will, in the end, tell against James's cause, for it will excite the sympathy of the Protestants in England and Scotland, and make them all the hotter to conquer Ireland." The following day, the troop was mustered in front of the castle, and, after a tender farewell to his wife and mother, Captain Davenant placed himself at their head and rode off. A quarter of an hour later Walter, with Larry Doolan on a rough little pony by his side, rode after the troop. Dublin was reached in the afternoon. The town presented a festive appearance. The principal streets were still draped with the flags which had been hung out at the king's entry, five days before. The streets were thronged with people, for loyalists had come in from all parts of the country to welcome the king. Large numbers of men, belonging to the newly raised regiments, wandered among the crowd, and with these were mingled the French uniforms of the Irish troops who had come over with James. The troop was loudly cheered by the crowd, as it passed through the town to the spot assigned to it in the camp of the force gathered near the city. Walter and Larry rode a short distance behind the troop, and joined it as soon as it reached the ground allotted to it. "It was a brave sight, father, was it not, to see the city decked out, and all the people cheering for the king? Dublin is setting a fine example--isn't it?" "You must not set much weight upon the cheering of a crowd, Walter. I do not say that the people of Dublin may not, at the present moment, be loyal to the king; but if he were defeated, and William were to march in, you would see that they would cheer him just as heartily. The mob of London cheered King James, as he passed through it, a week before he was so ill advised as to fly; and they threw up their hats for joy, a fortnight later, for William. No, my boy--there is no dependence on a mob. They worship success, and the king who is present is sure to be vastly more dear to them than the king who is absent. "And now you had better help Larry picket your horses. Put them by the side of mine. See how the troopers fasten theirs, and do yours the same. When that is done, send Larry to get hold of some wood, and light a fire. It will be cold when the sun goes down. As for food, we have brought enough with us for tonight. Tomorrow, I suppose, we shall get rations." Captain Davenant now posted a certain number of men to look after the horses, and the rest set off to cut firewood; and, in an hour, four or five great fires were blazing. Forage was served out for the horses, from the stores which had been collected, and also a truss of straw to every three soldiers, as bedding. Walter had, in the meantime, strolled away among the other camps, and was greatly amused at the various shifts and contrivances that the men had made to make themselves comfortable. A few only of the officers had tents; for these, as well as all other necessaries of war, were wanting; and the troops who had, for some little time, been in camp there, had raised all sorts of shelter from the weather. Some had constructed little huts of turf, thatched with straw or rushes; others had erected little tents, some of sailcloth obtained from the shipping, others of blankets, coarse linen cloaks, or any other articles on which they could lay hands. All were in high spirits at the prospect of the termination of the monotony of continued drill, and of the commencement of active campaigning. Huge fires blazed everywhere, and the country, for some distance round, had been completely stripped of its wood. Everywhere was life and bustle. Men were cleaning their arms, preparatory to the march of next day. Others were cooking at the fires. Troopers were grooming their horses. Snatches of song, and loud laughter, rose in the air. After wandering about for an hour, Walter rejoined his father. Captain Davenant was sitting with the two officers of his troop, Lieutenant O'Driscoll and Cornet Heron, by a fire, the materials for which the three troopers who acted as their servants had collected. There was no cooking to be done, for sufficient cold provisions had been brought with the troop. "You are just in time, Walter," his father said. "We are going to fall to, at once, at our meal. "Hand over that cold chicken, Larry; and do you, Tim Donelly, broach that keg of claret. Give me the bread, Fergus--that's right. "Now, gentlemen, here's a hunk each. Plates are a luxury which we must do without, in the field. Now let us fall to." Walter seated himself on a truss of straw beside his father, and thought he had never enjoyed a meal so much, in his life, as the bread and cold chicken, eaten as they were in the open air in front of the crackling fire. Each was provided with a horn, and these were filled from the keg. "Here's to the king, gentlemen. Success to his arms!" All stood up to drink the toast, and then continued their meal. Three chickens vanished rapidly, and the troopers kept their horns filled with claret. "If we always do as well as that," Captain Davenant said, as they finished the meal, "we shall have no reason to grumble. But I fear that's too much to expect. "Bring me my pipe and tobacco, Larry. You will find them in the holsters of my saddle. "Fergus, do you undo these trusses, and lay the straw out even--that will do. "Now, lads, you will find plenty more provisions in the wallet. Do you go and get your own suppers, then give an eye to the horses. We shall not want anything more." For two or three hours, the three officers and Walter sat chatting by the fire, occasionally piling on fresh logs. Gradually the din of voices in the camp died away, and the bright fires burned down. "I think we had better turn in," Captain Davenant said at last. "We must be astir an hour before daylight, for we march as soon as it's light." Rolling themselves in their long cloaks, they lay down upon the straw. It was some time before Walter got to sleep. The novelty of the situation, and the strangeness of lying with the night air blowing in his face, made him unusually wakeful. Occasionally, too, a laugh, from some party who were sitting late round their fire, attracted his attention, and the sound of the snorting and pawing of the horses also kept him awake; but at last he, too, went off to sleep. In spite of his warm cloak, he felt stiff and chilled when the sound of the trumpets and drums roused the camp. "Well, Walter, how do you like sleeping in the open?" his father said, as he rose to his feet and shook himself. "I don't mind the sleeping, father, but the waking is not so pleasant. However, I shall soon get accustomed to it, I suppose. But I always did hate getting up in the dark, even when we were going out fishing." "You won't always get as comfortable a bed as this, Walter; so don't expect it. The time will come, ere long, when you will look back upon this as absolute luxury. We are not likely to get straw another night, I can tell you. "Now, Fergus, bring that wallet here. We must breakfast before we get in the saddle." Walter came to the conclusion that breakfast, eaten in the dark, was a very inferior meal to dinner before a great fire. However, he kept his thoughts to himself, and, as soon as he had finished, went to aid Larry in saddling the horses. "I suppose I can ride with you today, father?" he said, as he mounted. "Yes; there will not be any military display by the way. Many of the soldiers have got nothing in the way of uniform at present. So you can ride with me. But if any general officer comes along, you must draw off a little, and drop behind with Larry, who will follow in the rear of the troop." As soon as daylight appeared, the bugles gave the signal, and the force, preceded by its cavalry, started on its march towards the north.	{ "id": "18356" }
4	: The Siege Of Derry.	There was an air of excitement in the streets of Derry. Knots of people were gathered, talking excitedly. Women stood at the doors of all the houses, while men moved aimlessly and restlessly about between the groups, listened for a time to a speaker, and then moved on again. The work of strengthening the defences, which had gone on incessantly for the last three months, had ceased, while numbers of persons were gathered on the walls, looking anxiously towards the south. A general air of gloom and despondency hung over the place. The storm which Derry had braved was gathering around it at last. King James and his troops were advancing against it. Opinion was strongly divided in the city. Almost without exception, the older citizens deprecated resistance. The walls, indeed, were strong, and the position formidable. The king had no artillery worth speaking of, and the walls, manned by brave men, might well, for a definite time, resist assault; but the stores of food could not long support the large population now gathered in the town, and there seemed no possibility, whatever, of assistance from England before the horrors of famine would be upon them. To what purpose, then, oppose resistance, which must, even if successful, cause frightful sufferings to the inhabitants, and which, if unsuccessful, would hand over the city to the vengeance of James. The garrison had been strengthened by two regiments and a vast quantity of supplies. But, including everything, there were but provisions for ten days, and as many weeks might elapse before assistance could come. The younger and more ardent spirits were for resistance to the last. "Better," they said, "die of hunger, than surrender the Protestant stronghold to the Papists." Every hour brought crowds of fugitives, the inhabitants of all the villages deserting their homes at the approach of the royal forces, and flying, with what goods they could carry, to Derry. Archdeacon Hamilton had arrived with a message from the king, offering that if the city would, within four days, surrender, there should be an amnesty to all for past offences, and that the property of all the inhabitants should be respected. This proposition was now being considered by the governor and his council, together with all the principal officers of the English regiments. John Whitefoot had been out all day, and had just returned to his cousin's house, which was crowded with fugitives, as the tanner had friends and connections in all the villages, and had opened his doors to all who sought shelter, until every room was filled. It was a pitiful sight to see women, with their babies in their arms and their children gathered round them, sitting forlornly, almost indifferent to the momentous consultation which was going on, and thinking only of their deserted homes, and wondering what had befallen them. The men had, for the most part, been out in the streets gathering news. The tanner's wife, assisted by two or three of the women, was busy at the great fire on the hearth, over which hung some huge pots in which broth and porridge were being prepared. One by one, the men dropped in. No news had yet been heard as to the decision of the council. It was dark when the tanner himself entered. His face was stern and pale. "It is settled," he said shortly. "The council have broken up. I have just spoken to one of the members. They and the officers are unanimously in favour of accepting the terms of James." Exclamations of anger broke from some of the men. "I cannot say aught against it," the tanner said, "though my heart feels well-nigh broken. Had we only men here, I should say let us fight to the last, but look at all these women and children! Think what thousands and thousands of them are in the town. Truly, I cannot blame the council that they have decided not to bring this terrible suffering upon the city." "The Lord will provide for his own," a minister, who had come in with his flock, said. "Friend, I had looked for better things from you. I thought that you were steadfast in the cause of the Lord, and now that the time of trouble comes, you fall away at once. Remember how Sennacherib and his host died before Jerusalem. Cannot the Lord protect Londonderry likewise?" "The age of miracles is past," the tanner said. "Did we not see, in Germany, how Magdeburg and other Protestant cities were destroyed, with their inhabitants, by the Papists? No, Brother Williams, the wicked are suffered to work their will here, when they are stronger than the godly, and we must look for no miracles. I am ready to fight, and, had the council decided otherwise, would have done my share to the last; but my heart sickens, as I look round on the women, the weak, and ailing. Did James demand that we should renounce our religion, I would say let us all die by sword or Famine rather than consent; but he has offered toleration to all, that none shall suffer for what has been done, and that the property as well as the lives of all shall be respected. "Truly, it seems to me that resistance would be not bravery, but a sort of madness. There are promises of aid from England; but how long may we have to wait for them? And there are but ten days' provisions in the town. If these English officers of King William think that resistance is hopeless, why should I, who know nought of war, set myself against them?" "Because they have not faith," the minister said, "and you should have faith; because they think only of carnal weapons, and you should trust to the Lord. Remember Leyden, how help came when all seemed lost." "I do," the tanner replied, "and I remember how the women and children suffered and died, how they dropped in the streets and perished with famine in their houses. I remember this, and I shrink from saying 'let us resist to the end.' I should rejoice if they had decided that Derry should be deserted, that the women and children should be sent away to shelter in the mountains of Donegal, and that every man should march out and do combat with the army of James. We are numerous, and far better armed than the Papists, and victory might be ours; but, were it otherwise, were every man fated to fall on the field, I would still say let us march forward. It is not death that I fear, but seeing these weak and helpless ones suffer. I should not envy the feelings of the men who decided on resistance, when the time came that the women and children were dying of hunger around them. There is a time to fight; and a time to sheath the sword, and to wait until a chance of drawing it successfully again arrives; and methinks that, having such good terms offered, the present is the time for waiting." The preacher waved his hand impatiently, and, wrapping himself in his cloak, left the house without another word. The next day the capitulation was signed, and the following day the army of James was seen approaching, and presently halted, on a hill within cannon shot of the town. Londonderry stands in a bend of the river Foyle, and the position which the army took up at once isolated it from the surrounding country. The offer of capitulation had already been sent out to General Hamilton by Captain White, the bearer receiving instructions to stipulate that the army should not advance within four miles of the town, until all was ready to hand over the city. In the meantime, General Rosen, who was in chief command of the army, stationed it so as to extend from one corner of the bend of the river to the other, and so to cut off all communication between the city and the surrounding country; but, in the course of the day, a country gentleman named Murray made his way through their lines, with a body of cavalry, and rode up to the gate of the town. The governor refused to open it, but, in spite of his orders, some of the townspeople opened the gate, and Murray rode into the town, and, going from point to point, exhorted the people not to surrender but to resist to the last, accusing the governor and council of foul treachery, in thus handing over the city. The confusion and excitement in the streets was now great, and, while this was going on, the governor sent a trumpeter to the king, requiring one hour's time before the city should surrender. Rosen took no notice of this, and, believing that all was arranged, rode forward with the king and a portion of the army. But Murray's exhortations and passionate harangues had their effect. A number of the townspeople ran to the walls, and, loading the cannon, opened, with these and their muskets, a heavy fire on the approaching troops. Several of the soldiers were killed, and among them was Captain Troy, who was riding close to the king. Astonished at this unexpected resistance, the troops drew back, as they were entirely without means of making an assault upon the city. The governor and council at once sent Archdeacon Hamilton to the royal camp, to excuse themselves for what had happened, and to explain that the firing was the action of a turbulent body of men, whom they were unable to restrain, and whom they represented as drunken rebels. The better class of citizens, they said, were all resolved to surrender dutifully, and were doing all they could to persuade the common people to do the same. As the royal artillery had not yet arrived, James drew off his troops to Saint Johnston. Murray, with a body of horse, went out and skirmished with them, but returned into the town on hearing that the council still intended to surrender, and again harangued the people. Eight thousand men assembled on the parade, and, after listening to a passionate harangue, declared that they would resist to the last. They at once chose a preacher named Walker, and a Mr. Baker, as joint governors, appointed Murray as general in the field, divided themselves into eight regiments, and took the entire control of the city into their hands. Archdeacon Hamilton, Lundy, and several of the principal citizens at once left the town, in disguise, and were allowed to pass through the besieging army. John Whitefoot had been present at all the events which had taken place that day, and, although he had quite agreed with his cousin that resistance would do no good to the cause, and would entail fearful sufferings on the besieged, he was carried away by the general enthusiasm, and shouted as loudly as any in reply to the exhortations of Murray. The tanner was also present. John was by his side, and saw that he was deeply moved by the speech, but he did not join in the acclamations. When all was over, he laid his hand on John's shoulder: "The die is cast, my boy. I am glad that no act or voice of mine has had aught to do with bringing it about, and that the weight of what is to come will not rest upon my conscience. But, now that it is decided, I shall not be one to draw back, but will do my share with what strength the Lord has given me." "May I join one of the regiments, too?" John asked. "I am young, but I am as strong as many men." "It were better not, at present, John. Before the end comes, every arm that can bear weapon may be needed, but, at present, there is no reason why you should do so. Doubtless, plenty of work will be found for younger hands, besides absolute fighting, but I think not that there will be much fighting, save against famine. Our walls are strong, and we have well-nigh forty pieces of cannon, while they say that James has but six pieces, and most of these are small. "Methinks, then, that they will not even attempt to take the city by storm. Why should they waste men in doing so, when they can starve us out? It is famine we have to fight, in this sort of war. I do not think that James has, in all Ireland, cannon sufficient to batter down our walls; but ten days will bring our provisions to an end. It will be with us as with Leyden. We have only to suffer and wait. If it be God's will, succour will come in time. If not, we must even perish." With his spirits somewhat damped by his cousin's view of the case, John returned with him to the house. He would willingly enough have gone out, to fight against the besiegers, but the thought of the long slow agony of starvation was naturally terrible to a lad of good health and appetite. The mob of Derry had shown good sense in the choice which they made of their governors. Baker, indeed, who was a military man, was a mere cipher in the matter. Walker was, in reality, the sole governor. He was a man of energy and judgment, as well as enthusiastic and fanatical, and he at once gave evidence of his fitness for the post, and set himself diligently to work to establish order in the town. He issued orders that all unable to bear arms, who wished to leave the town, could do so, while the able-bodied men, now formed into regiments, were assigned every man his place, and every regiment its quarter, on the walls. No less than thirty thousand fugitives, exclusive of the garrison, were shut up in the walls of Derry, and the army which was besieging the town numbered twenty thousand. The guns of the besiegers soon opened fire, and those on the walls replied briskly. The besiegers threw up works, but carried on the siege but languidly, feeling sure that famine must, ere long, force the town to surrender; and fearing, perhaps, to engage the fresh and ill-trained levies against a multitude, animated by the desperate resolution and religious fanaticism of the defenders of the town. Now that the die was once cast, there was no longer any difference of opinion among the inhabitants, and all classes joined enthusiastically in the measures for defence. All provisions in the town were given into one common store, to be doled out in regular rations, and so made to last as long as possible; and, as these rations were, from the first, extremely small, the sufferings of the besieged really began from the first day. John Whitefoot found that there was but little for him to do, and spent much of his time on the walls, watching the throwing up of works by the besiegers. A regular cannonade was now kept up on both sides; but, though the shot occasionally fell inside the town, the danger to the inhabitants from this source was but slight; for, of the six guns possessed by the besiegers, five were very small, and one only was large enough to carry shell. All day the various chapels were open, and here the preachers, by their fiery discourses, kept up the spirits and courage of the people who thronged these buildings. The women spent most of their time there, and the men, when off duty from the walls, however fatigued they might be with their labour, flocked at once to the chapels, to pray for strength to resist and for early succour. Never were the whole population of the town more deeply animated by religious excitement, never a whole population more thoroughly and unanimously determined to die, rather than surrender. When not upon the walls or in chapel, John spent much of his time in amusing the children, of whom there were many in the tanner's house. The change from their country quarters, the crowded town, the privation of milk, and the scantiness and unfitness of their rations, soon began to tell upon the little ones, and John felt thankful, indeed, that his mind had been stored with stories from his varied reading of the last two or three years. With these, he was able to interest and quiet the children, who sat round him with wrapt attention, while the booming of the guns and the occasional rattling of musketry outside passed unheeded. Scarce a day passed without active fighting, the initiative being always taken by the besieged, for, in the royal army, the policy of blockade rather than assault was steadily adhered to. The besieged, however, continually sallied out, and attacked the parties engaged in throwing up works. There was no settled plan of operations; but the commander on each portion of the walls led out his men against the enemy, whenever he thought he saw a favourable opportunity. The fights which ensued were stoutly contested, and many were killed, but no advantage was gained on either side. If it was the intention of the besieged to incite the Royalists to make an attack upon the city, they failed altogether, and, indeed, would have served their purpose better had they remained quietly within the walls, for the energy and desperation with which they fought were well calculated to deter even the most energetic commander from attacking a town defended by eight or nine thousand men, animated by such fiery energy. So confident, indeed, were the besieged, that the gates were often left open, and taunting invitations to come on and take Derry were shouted to the besiegers. The supply of provisions found to be stored away was vastly greater than had been expected, for many of the fugitives had brought in large stores, and a great number of the inhabitants had been, for weeks, making preparation for the siege, by buying up quantities of grain and storing it in their cellars. Thus, up to the end of the first month, although the allowance of food was short, no real suffering was undergone by the inhabitants; but, as time went on, the supplies doled out became smaller and smaller, and dysentery and fever broke out in the crowded town. Fierce disputes arose between those belonging to the Established Church and the Nonconformists, and it was with the greatest difficulty that Governor Walker prevented the two parties from engaging in open strife. Day and night, the besiegers' fire continued, and many were killed by the shells which fell in the city. The fighting men on the walls were far better off than those who had nothing to do but to wait and suffer, and it was among the women and children, chiefly, that disease at first made its victims. For a time, the children of the families who had taken refuge with the tanner remained healthy. The visitors were lodged for the most part in the cellars, so as to be in shelter from the fire of the enemy's mortar; but John Whitefoot suggested to his cousin that the children would soon pine and sicken, unless they had air. The tanner gave his consent to John's establishing a shelter in the yard. A corner was chosen, and a number of casks were placed along by either wall; on these beams were laid, for it happened that the tanner had intended, shortly before the siege, to build a large shed, and had got the timber together for the purpose. On the timber, bark from the now disused pits was heaped to a depth of some feet, which would effectually break the fall of any shell which might light upon it, and, along the front of this low triangular building, two lines of sacks filled with tan were placed. These would suffice to prevent any fragment of a shell, which might fall and burst in the courtyard, from entering the shelter; save by the opening, about a foot deep, between the top of the sacks and the beams. When the whole was completed, John gathered the children there, and made it their headquarters, and established himself as captain of the castle, as he called it. The elders entered warmly into his plans. It was a great relief, to them, to have the house cleared of the eighteen or twenty children. Their mothers had no longer any anxiety for their safety, and the children themselves looked upon it as great fun. There was plenty of air here, and, in a short time, John persuaded the parents to allow the children to sleep, as well as to pass the day, in the shelter. Here he told them stories, constructed toys for them, and kept them amused and quiet, appointing as his lieutenants three or four of the oldest of the girls, who had the little ones under their special charge. John was rewarded, for his pains, by seeing that the children kept their health far better than did those of their neighbours, and, up to the end of May, not one of them had succumbed, although several of the parents had already fallen victims to dysentery and fever. Thus the month of May passed. With June, the hardships rapidly increased; but, on the 13th, shouts of joy were heard in the streets. John ran out to ascertain the cause, and learned that a fleet of thirty ships had appeared in Lough Foyle, and was approaching the city. The inhabitants, frantic with joy, ran to the walls, and both sides suspended their fire to watch the approaching fleet. Suddenly, the ships were seen to turn and sail away. The people could not believe that they were deserted; but, when they saw that the fleet was really making off, curses and cries of lamentation and grief rose from the crowd. Why Major General Kirk, who commanded the force on board the ships, which were laden with provisions, did not attempt to sail up to Londonderry, which, as was afterwards proved, they could have done without difficulty, was never satisfactorily explained. The besiegers had erected two or three small forts on the banks of the river, but these were quite incapable of arresting the passage of the fleet, had it been commanded by a man of any resolution. Kirk anchored in Lough Swilly, and contented himself with sending messages to the town, to hold out to the last. A fresh search was now made for provisions, and parties of men entered houses which had been abandoned, or whose inmates had died, and dug up the floors of the cellars. Several considerable deposits of grain were discovered, and many inhabitants, moved by the intensity of the general suffering, voluntarily brought out hoards which they had hitherto kept secret. Early in the siege, the water in the wells had become turbid and muddy, partly owing, it was thought, to the concussion of the ground by the constant firing, partly by the extra supplies which were drawn from them. As the time went on, many of them dried altogether, and the water in the others became so muddy that it had to be filtered through cloth or sacking, before it could be drunk. During fishing expeditions, previous to the commencement of the siege, John had more than once had a drink of water from the well of a peasant, living in a little hut near the river bank. This hut lay between the outposts of the two parties, and had, at the commencement of the siege, been deserted by its owner. After the water became bad, John set out every evening with a bucket, leaving the town just before the gates were shut, and making straight down to the river. When it became dark, he crawled along under the shelter of the banks, unperceived by the outposts of either party, until close to the hut. Then he filled his bucket at the well, and returned as he had come, lying down to sleep on the bank, well in the rear of the Protestant outposts, until morning; when, as soon as the gates were opened, he carried home the precious supply. It was this, as much as the light and air, which kept the children in comparative health; but, on the further diminution of rations which took place after Kirk's fleet retired, they began to fade rapidly. The horses had now been killed for food. The sufferings of the besieged inhabitants became greater daily, and numbers died from sheer starvation. The little inhabitants of John Whitefoot's castle were mere skeletons. Most of their parents were dead, and a mournful silence pervaded the town, save when the bells of the chapels called to prayer, or the yells of the mob announced that the lower orders were breaking into houses in search of food. John could stand the sight of the faces of the suffering children no longer. He was himself faint and ill from hunger, for he had, each day, given a portion of his own scanty rations to the weakest of the children, and he determined to try and get them some food, or to die in the attempt. He set out at his usual hour in the evening. The tide was high, but just running out, and, entering the river, he floated down with the stream. Keeping close under the bank, he passed the batteries which the besiegers had erected there without notice, dived under the great boom which they had constructed across the river, directly Kirk's expedition had retired, and continued to float down to the mouth of the river, where he landed and boldly struck across the country, for he was now beyond the lines of the besiegers. He knew that his friend Walter was in the Royalist army, for one of the last mails which entered the city had told him that he was to accompany his father, and that Captain Davenant's troop would most likely form part of any army that might march for the north. By the morning, his clothes had dried upon him, and he then boldly entered the Royalist camp, mingling with the peasants who were bringing in provisions for sale. He soon learned where Captain Davenant's troop was stationed, and made his way thither. He stood watching for some time until he saw Walter come out of a tent, and he then approached him. Walter looked up, but did not recognize, in the thin and pallid lad before him, his former companion. "Do you want anything?" he asked. "Don't you know me, Walter?" John said. Walter started, and gazed at him earnestly. "Good heavens!" he exclaimed at last. "Why, it can't be John!" "It is what remains of me," John replied, with a faint smile. "Why, what on earth have you been doing to yourself, John?" "I have been starving, in there," John said, pointing to the city. "Come into the tent, John," Walter said, grasping his friend's arm, and then letting it fall again, with an exclamation of horror at its thinness. "You needn't be afraid. My father is out--not that that would make any difference." John entered the tent, and sat exhausted upon a box. Walter hastened to get some food, which he set before him, and poured out a large cup of wine and water, and then stood, looking on in awed silence, while John devoured his meal. "I have wondered, a thousand times," he said at last, when John had finished, "what you were doing in there, or whether you left before the siege began. How did you get out?" "I floated down the river to the mouth, beyond your lines, last night; and then worked round here. I thought I might find you." "Well, I am glad indeed that you are out," Walter said. "Every time the mortar sent a shell into the town, I was thinking of you, and wishing that I could share meals with you, for, of course, we know that you are suffering horribly in the town." "Horribly!" John repeated. "You can have no idea what it is, Walter, to see children suffer. As for men, if it is the will of God, they must bear it, but it is awful for children. I have had eighteen of them under my charge through the siege, and to see them getting thinner and weaker, every day, till the bones look as if they would come through the skin, and their eyes get bigger and bigger, and their voices weaker, is awful. At last I could stand it no longer, and I have come out to fetch some food for them." "To fetch food!" Walter repeated. "Do you mean to say you are thinking of going back again?" "That I am," John said. "I am going to take some food in to them. You will help me, won't you, Walter? It isn't for the men that fight, but for little children, who know nothing about King James, or King William, or the Protestants, or the Catholics, but who are just God's creatures, and are dying of hunger. No one could grudge food to infants like these." "I will help you, of course, John," Walter said, "if I can; but now, tell me all about it." John then gave an account of all he had been doing throughout the siege. "And now what have you been doing, Walter? Fighting?" "No. I have not been doing any fighting, except that, once or twice, I was out with the troop, when they had a skirmish with your horsemen, but I kept in the rear. I hope, ere long, my father will let me enter, but he is waiting to see what comes of it. No. I have been idle enough. Well, of course, I know all the officers in the cavalry now, and pretty nearly all the officers in the camp, and then, with these constant skirmishes and attacks by your people and ours, there is always plenty to interest one. General Hamilton has been conducting the siege lately, but General Rosen returned yesterday and took the command; but there's really not much to do. We know you cannot hold out much longer." "I don't know," John said quietly. "I think that, as long as a man has strength enough to hold his arms, Derry will not surrender. When you march in, it will be to a city of dead people. We had such hopes when the fleet came. If the people could have caught Kirk, they would have torn him in pieces. He had five thousand soldiers on board, and, if he had landed them, we could have sallied out and fought, instead of dying of hunger." "Yes," Walter agreed, "we should have retired at once. We have only seven or eight thousand men here now, and if five thousand English soldiers had landed, we must have raised the siege at once. I can tell you that, though he is on the other side, I was almost as angry at Kirk's cowardice as you must have been. I shall be glad when this awful business is over. I knew it was bad enough before, but after what you have told me about the women and children, I shall never think of anything else, and I will gladly help you in any way I can. There can't be any treason in trying to prevent children from starving to death. What do you want me to do?" "What would do the children more good than anything, the women say, would be milk. If I could get a keg that would hold two or three gallons--and a watertight box with about twenty pounds of bread, I could swim back with them just as I came. I would show you the exact spot where I landed, and would come out again in four days. If you could put a supply ready for me, every fourth night, among the bushes at the mouth of the river, with a little lantern to show me the exact spot, I could come down with the tide, get the things, and float back again when the tide turns." "I could do that, easily enough," Walter said. "The mouth of the river is quite beyond our lines. But it is very risky for you, John. You might get shot, if a sentry were to see you." "I do not think that there is much fear of that," John said. "Just floating along as I do, without swimming at all, there is only just my face above water, and it would be hardly possible for a sentry to see me; but if I were shot, I could not die in a better cause." "I think, John, if you don't mind, I should like to tell my father. I am quite sure he would not object, and, in case you should happen to get caught, you could refer at once to him to prove that you were not a spy. They make very short work of spies. But if you were to demand to be brought to Captain Davenant, and say you were acting in accordance with his knowledge, no doubt they would bring you." "Do as you think best, Walter, but don't tell him, unless you feel almost sure that he will not object." "There is no fear of that," Walter said. "He is constantly lamenting over the sufferings of the people of Derry, and has, all along, been in favour of attempting to storm the place by force, so as to put a stop to all this useless suffering. Now, John, you had better lie down on that straw bed of mine, and get a sleep. After that, you will be ready for another meal. I will tell Larry to go out among the market people, and buy three gallons of milk and twenty pounds of bread. There are plenty of small spirit kegs about, which will do capitally for the milk, and I don't think that we can have anything better than one of them for the bread. We can head it up, and make it watertight. How do you mean to get into the town? I should have thought that they were likely to be seized." "So they would be," John said. "I shall hide them in some bushes at the foot of the walls, at the side of the town facing the river. There are only a few sentries there. Then, when it is light, I shall go in and tell my cousin; and get him, after dark, to lower a rope from the wall. I shall of course be below, to tie on the kegs. He can then walk with them boldly through the street to our house, which is only a short distance from that part of the walls. If anyone saw him, they would only suppose he was taking home water from one of the wells." John was soon fast asleep. Walter sat watching him until, two hours later, his father returned with his troop. John still slept on, while Walter told his father the errand on which he had come. "He is a brave lad," Captain Davenant said, "and I honour him for his conduct. It is not many men who, at a time like this, would risk their lives for a number of children who are not any relation to them. Certainly, I will gladly assist him. I am sick at heart at all this. My only consolation is, that it is brought on solely by the acts of these men, who, though comparatively a handful, set themselves up against the voice of all Ireland. If they had risen when an English army arrived to their assistance, I should say nothing against it. As it is, without doing any good to their cause, they are entailing this horrible suffering upon thousands of women and children. "By all means, help the poor lad, and if he should fall into the hands of our people, let him mention my name. Rosen would no doubt disapprove of it, but I cannot help that. All the Irish gentlemen in the army would agree that I had done rightly, and, even if they didn't, my own conscience would be quite sufficient for me to act upon. I am fighting against the king's enemies, not warring against women and children. "How soundly the poor lad sleeps, and how changed he is! He is a mere skeleton. I should not have known him in the least. If this is the condition into which a strong, healthy lad has fallen, what must the women and children have suffered! I wish Kirk had not turned coward, but had landed his troops. We could then have brought up our scattered forces, and could have fought them in a fair field, with something like equal forces. That would have been vastly more to my taste than starving them, like rats in a hole."	{ "id": "18356" }
5	: The Relief Of Derry.	It was late in the afternoon before John woke. He started up, as his eyes fell upon Captain Davenant. "You have had a good sleep, and I hope you are all the better for it," Captain Davenant said, kindly. "My son has been telling me all about your expedition, and I honour you very much, for the courage you have shown in thus risking your life to get food for those starving children. I quite approve of the promise Walter has given to assist you, and if you should, by any chance, be taken prisoner, I will stand your friend." John expressed his gratitude warmly. "It is a sad thing, in these civil wars, when friends are arrayed against friends," Captain Davenant said. "Who would have thought, three months ago, that you and Walter would be arrayed on opposite sides? It is true you are neither of you combatants, but I have no doubt you would gladly have joined in some of the sallies, just as Walter is eager to be riding in my troop. If we must fight, I wish, at any rate, that it could be so managed that all the suffering should fall upon the men who are willing to take up the sword, and not upon the women and children. My heart bleeds as I ride across the country. At one time, one comes upon a ruined village, burned by the midnight ruffians who call themselves rapparees, and who are a disgrace to our cause. At another, upon a place sacked and ruined by one of the bands of horsemen from Enniskillen, who are as cruel and merciless as the rapparees. Let the armies fight out their quarrels, I say, but let peaceful people dwell in quiet and safety. But wholesale atrocities have ever been the rule on both sides, in warfare in Ireland, and will, I suppose, remain so to the end. "And now, we are just going to have dinner, and another hearty meal will do you good. Each night, when my son brings down the supplies for you, he will bring a substantial meal of cold meat and bread, and you must give me your promise, now, that you will eat this at once. You will need it, after being so long in the water, and having another swim before you, besides. Although I approve of sending in milk for the children, I can be no party to the supply of food for the garrison. Do you promise?" "Yes, sir, I promise," John said, "though I would rather save all but a mouthful or two for the people who are starving at home. Still, of course, if you insist upon it, I will promise." "I do insist upon it, John. The lives of these children of yours depend on your life, and even one good meal, every four days, will help you to keep enough strength together to carry out the kind work you have undertaken." Larry now brought in the dinner. He had been told by Walter of John's arrival, but he otherwise would have failed to recognize, in him, the boy who had sometimes come down to the village with Walter. "Are you quite well, Larry?" John asked him. "I am," Larry replied; "but I need not ask the same question of yourself, for you are nothing but skin and bone, entirely. Dear, dear, I wouldn't have known you at all, at all, and such a foine colour as ye used to have." "I don't think starving would suit you, Larry," Captain Davenant said with a smile. "Sure an' it wouldn't, yer honour. It's always ready to eat I am, though, as mother says, the victuals don't seem to do me much good, anyway." "You won't be able to come out and go back again the same night next week, John," Captain Davenant said, presently. "The tide won't suit, so you must come up here, as you have done today. You will always find a hearty welcome, and Walter shall go down and meet you early in the morning, near the mouth of the river, so you can come up with him; and then, if you fall in with any of the other parties, no questions will be asked. I think everyone in camp knows him now. "I wonder what your grandfather would say, if he saw you sitting here at dinner with Walter and me?" John laughed. "I am afraid he would disown me, then and there, without listening to explanations." "I have no doubt it's a sore grievance to him that he is not in Derry, at present," Captain Davenant said. "I am sure it is," John replied; "but the fasting would be a great trial to him. My grandfather is a capital trencherman. Still, I am sure he would have borne his part." "That he would," Captain Davenant agreed. "He and the men of his class are thorough, fanatics as I consider them. Hard and pitiless as they proved themselves, to those against whom they fought, one cannot but admire them, for they were heart and soul in their cause. There was no flinching, no half measures, no concessions for the sake of expediency. On the ground on which they took their stand, they conquered or died. Would that a like spirit animated all my countrymen!" After nightfall, Larry brought round Walter's horse, saddled, and his own rough pony. Walter mounted the former, and John the latter. The two kegs were slung across Walter's horse. "Will you meet me at the clump of trees, half a mile out of camp, Larry?" Walter said. "In the dark, no one will notice the difference between you and John." Captain Davenant had furnished Walter with a password, and now walked beside the two boys till they were well beyond the camp, and then returned to his tent. The lads made their way, without meeting with anyone, down to the mouth of the river. The kegs were then taken off the horse and placed in the water--they floated just above the surface. "That is exactly right," John said. "They will not show any more than will my face. When I come down next time, I shall fill them with water, so as to keep them just at this level." "I am afraid the moon will be up next time, John." "Yes, it will. I shall lay some boughs of bush across my face and the kegs, so that there will be no fear of my face showing; and if a sentry should happen to catch sight of it, he will suppose that it is merely a bush drifting in the stream." "Well, goodbye, John, and may you get through without trouble." "I have no fear, Walter. I am in God's hands, and He will take me safely through, if He thinks fit." The journey was achieved without detection, the only difficulty being the sinking of the kegs under the boom; this, however, was successfully accomplished, and by midnight, the kegs were safely hidden in some bushes at the foot of the wall, and there John lay down and waited for morning. As he entered the yard, the children ran out to meet him. There were no loud rejoicings; they had no longer strength or spirit to shout and laugh; but the joy in the thin worn faces was more eloquent than any words could have been. "We have missed you so, John. We have wanted you so much. Lucy and Kate and Deby were so bad yesterday, and they did cry so for you. We were all so hungry. We don't mind so much, when you are here to talk to us and tell us stories. Why did you stop away, John, when we wanted you so?" "I went away to see if I could manage to get you something to eat." "And did you?" was the anxious cry. "I have got a little; but you must wait till evening, and then you will each have--" and he stopped. "What, John? Oh, do tell us!" "You will each have some milk and bread. "Not much, dears," he went on, as there was a cry of gladness, which was pitiful from the intensity of joy it expressed, "but there will be some for tonight, and a little curds and whey and bread for you tomorrow and next day, and I hope always, as long as this lasts. Now go, dears, into your castle. I will come to you presently. I have brought you some water, as usual." "I am heartily glad to see you back, John," his cousin said, as he entered the house. "The children were in a sad state without you, yesterday. I suppose you can tell me, now, what you have been doing. You told me you would be away two nights, and begged me not to ask any questions; but, although I know you to be discreet and prudent, I have been worrying." "I will tell you now," John said, and he recounted the details of the expedition which he had accomplished. "And you have swum the river twice, and been in the camp of the Papists. Truly it is surprising, John, and I know not what to do. Should your visit there be discovered, you will assuredly be accused of treachery." "They may accuse me of what they like," John said quietly. "I have done it, and I am going to do it again, every fourth night, and there is the milk and bread at the foot of the wall, ready for you to haul up as soon as it gets dark." "It ought to be fairly divided," the tanner said. "It will be fairly divided, between our children," John said; "but nobody else will get a drop or a crumb. I have risked my life to get it for them. If other people want to get it, let them do the same. Besides, as I told you, Captain Davenant and his son both procured it for me for the sake of the children, and them only, and I should be breaking faith with them if any others touched it, save those for whom it was given me. It is little enough among eighteen children for four days--a pound of bread and a little over a pint of milk, each. They must each have a quarter of a pint, when you bring it in tonight, and the rest had better be curdled. That way it will keep, and they can have a portion each day of curds and whey, and a fourth share of their bread. It is little enough; but I trust that it may keep life in them." "Well, John, I will do as you say," the tanner said, after a pause. "It goes somewhat against my conscience; but, as you say, it will make but a meagre portion for each of them, and would be nothing were it fairly divided; besides, you have brought it with the risk of your life, and I know not that any save you have a right to a voice in its partition." Before the gates were closed, John went out, and presently had the satisfaction of hearing a small stone drop from the wall above him, followed presently by the end of a rope. He sent up the kegs, and then lay down among the bushes, and enjoyed the satisfaction of thinking of the joy of the little ones, when the milk and bread were served out to them. As soon as the gates were open in the morning, he went in. "Thank you, oh, so much, for the milk and bread last night. We heard how you had swum so far, and gone into danger to get it for us, and we're going to have some more for breakfast." "It was not much, dears," John said. "Oh, no, it was not much; but it was so nice, and we did all sleep so well last night--even little Lucy didn't waken and cry once--and Ruth Hardy said we ought to call you the Raven; but we don't like that name for you." "The Raven, Ruth!" John said, mystified. "Why did you want to call me the Raven?" "I wouldn't do it if you didn't like it, dear John; but you know that chapter that Master Williams read us, the other day, about the ravens that fed somebody in a cave, and we have been wishing the ravens would feed us; and so you see, when you sent us the milk last night, I thought you ought to be called the Raven. I did not mean any harm." "No, my dear, of course not, and you can all call me the Raven, if you like." "No, no, John. You are John, and that's much better than the Raven. They brought the man food, but they didn't nurse him and tell him stories, as you do." "Now, run inside the castle," John said, "and I will go in and get your breakfasts." John soon returned, with a great bowl of curds and whey, a platter piled up with slices of bread and a score of little mugs, and the feast began. Scarce a word was said while the children were eating. Their hunger was too keen, and their enjoyment too intense, to admit of speech. When each had finished their portion, there was a general exclamation. "Oh, John, you haven't had any. Why didn't you have some, too?" "Because there is only enough for you," he said. "If I were to have some, and Cousin Josiah, and all the others, there would be a very little share for you; besides, when I went out the day before yesterday, I had as much as I could eat." "Oh, dear, that must have been nice," one of the boys said. "Only think, having as much as one can eat. Oh, how much I could eat, if I had it!" "And yet I daresay, Tom," John said, "that sometimes, before you came here, when you had as much as you could eat, you used to grumble if it wasn't quite what you fancied." "I shall never grumble again," the boy said positively. "I shall be quite, quite content with potatoes, if I can but get enough of them." "The good times will come again," John said cheerily. "Now we will have a story. Which shall it be?" As the children sat round him, John was delighted to see that even the two scanty meals they had had, had done wonders for them. The listless, hopeless look of the last few days had disappeared, and occasionally something like a hearty laugh broke out among them, and an hour later the tanner came to the entrance. "Come to the walls with me, John." "What is it? What is the matter?" John said, as he saw the look of anger and indignation on the wasted features of his cousin. "Come and see for yourself," the latter said. When they reached the walls, they found them crowded with the inhabitants. Outside were a multitude of women, children, and old men. These General Rosen, with a refinement of cruelty, had swept in from the country round and driven under the walls, where they were left to starve, unless the garrison would take them in, and divide their scanty supply of food with them. "It is monstrous," John cried, when he understood the meaning of the sight. "What are we to do?" "We can do nothing," the tanner replied. "The council have met, and have determined to keep the gates closed. We are dying for the cause. They must do so too; and they will not die in vain, for all Europe will cry out when they hear of this dastardly act of cruelty." The people outside were animated by a spirit as stern as that of the besieged, and the women cried out, to those on the walls, to keep the gates shut and to resist to the last, and not to heed them. The ministers went out through the gates, and held services among the crowd, and the people on the walls joined in the hymns that were sung below. So, for three days and nights, the people within and without fasted and prayed. On the third day, a messenger arrived from King James at Dublin, ordering General Rosen at once to let the people depart. The indignation, among the Irish gentlemen in the camp, at Rosen's brutal order had been unbounded, and messenger after messenger had been sent to Dublin, where the news excited a burst of indignation, and James at once countermanded the order of the general. The gates were opened now, and the people flocked out and exchanged greetings with their friends. A few able-bodied men in the crowd entered the town, to share in its defence, while a considerable number of the women and children from within mingled with them, and moved away through the lines of the besiegers. John had, the day before, gone out when the gates were opened for the preachers, and at night had again safely made the passage to the mouth of the river and back. He found the lantern burning among the bushes, and two kegs placed beside it, with a bountiful meal of bread and meat for himself. So the days went on, each day lessening the number of the inhabitants of the town. Fever and famine were making terrible ravages, and the survivors moved about the streets like living skeletons, so feeble and weak, now, that they could scarce bear the weight of their arms. On the 30th of July, three ships were seen approaching the mouth of the river. They were part of Kirk's squadron, which had all this time been lying idle, almost within sight of the town. The news of his conduct had excited such anger and indignation in England that, at last, in obedience to peremptory orders from London, he prepared to make the attempt; although, by sending only two store ships and one frigate, it would almost seem as if he had determined that it should be a failure. The besiegers as well as the besieged saw the three ships advancing, and the former moved down to the shore, to repel the attempt. The batteries on either side of the boom were manned, and from them, and from the infantry gathered on the banks, a heavy fire was opened as the ships approached. So innocuous was the fire of the artillery, that it has been supposed that Kirk had previously bribed the officers commanding the forts. At any rate, the ships suffered no material damage, and, returning the fire, advanced against the boom. The leading store ship dashed against it and broke it, but the ship swerved from her course with the shock, and struck the ground. A shout of dismay burst from those on the walls, and one of exultation from the besiegers, who rushed down to board the vessel. Her captain, however, pointed all his guns forward, and discharged them all at the same moment, and the recoil shook the vessel from her hold on the ground, and she floated off, and pursued her way up the river, followed by her consorts. The delay of Kirk had cost the defenders of Londonderry more than half their number. The fighting men had, either by disease, famine, or in the field, lost some five thousand, while of the non-combatants seven thousand had died. The joy and exultation in the city, as the two store ships ranged up under its walls, were unbounded. Provisions were speedily conveyed on shore, and abundance took the place of famine. Five days later, General Rosen raised the siege and marched away with his army, which had, in the various operations of the siege, and from the effect of disease, lost upwards of three thousand men. "This has been a bad beginning, Walter," Captain Davenant said, as they rode away from the grounds on which they had been so long encamped. "If the whole force of Ireland does not suffice to take a single town, the prospect of our waging war successfully against England is not hopeful." "It seems to me that it would have been much better to have left Derry alone, father," Walter said. "It would have been better, as it has turned out, Walter; but had the king taken the place, as he expected, without difficulty, he would have crossed with a portion of the army to Scotland, where a considerable part of the population would at once have joined him. The defence of Derry has entirely thwarted that plan, and I fear now that it will never be carried out. "However, it has had the advantage of making soldiers out of an army of peasants. When we came here, officers and men were alike ignorant of everything relating to war. Now we have, at any rate, learned a certain amount of drill and discipline, and I think we shall give a much better account of ourselves, in the open field, than we have done in front of a strong town which we had no means whatever of storming. Still, it has been a frightful waste of life on both sides, and with no result, beyond horribly embittering the feeling of hatred, which unfortunately prevailed before, between the Catholic and Protestant populations." The mortification and disgust, caused by the failure of Londonderry, was increased by a severe defeat of a force under General Justin McCarthy, Lord Mountcashel, at Newtown Butler, on the very day that Derry was relieved. General McCarthy had been detached, with a corps of six thousand men, against the Enniskilleners. He came up with them near Newtown Butler. Although but two thousand strong, the Enniskilleners, who were commanded by Colonel Wolseley, an English officer, at once attacked the Irish, only a portion of whom had come upon the ground. McCarthy, who was a brave and experienced officer, sent orders to the cavalry to face to the right, and march to the support of the wing that was attacked. The officer gave the order "right--about face," and the cavalry turned and trotted towards the rear. The infantry, believing that they were deserted by the horse, at once lost heart and fell into confusion. McCarthy, while endeavouring to remedy the disorder, was wounded and taken prisoner, and the flight became general. The Enniskilleners pursued with savage fury, and during the evening, the whole of the night, and the greater part of the next day, hunted the fugitives down in the bogs and woods, and slew them in cold blood. Five hundred of the Irish threw themselves into Lough Erne, rather than face death at the hands of their savage enemies, and only one of the number saved himself by swimming. After leaving Derry, the army returned to Dublin, where the parliament which James had summoned was then sitting. Most of the soldiers were quartered on the citizens; but, as the pressure was very great, Captain Davenant easily obtained leave for his troop to go out to Bray, where they were within a very short distance of his own house. The day after his return home, Walter went over to give Jabez Whitefoot and his wife news of John, from whom they had heard nothing, since a fortnight before the siege had begun. "Your son is alive and well," were his first words. "He has been all through the siege of Derry, and has behaved like a hero." "The Lord be praised!" Jabez said, while his wife burst into tears of relief, for she had gone through terrible anxiety during the long weeks that Derry had been suffering from starvation. "But how do you know, Master Walter?" Jabez asked. "Seeing that you were on the side of the besiegers, how could you tell what was passing on the inside of the walls? How do you know John is alive?" "Because I saw him first, a month before the end of the siege, and because he came regularly afterwards, to fetch away some provisions which I had placed for him." And Walter then gave a full account of John's visit to the camp, in search of food for the children who were sheltered in the tanner's house. "That is just like John," his mother said. "He was ever thoughtful for others. I am more pleased, a hundred times, that he should have so risked his life to obtain food for the little ones, than if he had taken part in the fighting and proved himself a very champion of Derry." Parliament had met on the 7th of May. The session had been opened by a speech from the throne, in which the king commended the loyalty of his Irish subjects, declared his intention to make no difference between Catholics and Protestants, and that loyalty and good conduct should be the only passport to his favour. He stated his earnest wish that good and wholesome laws should be enacted, for the encouragement of trade and of the manufactures of the country, and for the relief of such as had suffered injustice by the Act of Settlement; that is, the act by which the lands of the Catholics had been handed over, wholesale, to Cromwell's soldiers and other Protestants. Bills were speedily passed, abolishing the jurisdiction of English courts of law and of the English parliament in Ireland, and other bills were passed for the regulation of commerce and the promotion of shipbuilding. The bill for the repeal of the Act of Settlement was brought up on the 22d of May. It was opposed only by the Protestant bishops and peers, and became law on the 11th of June. Acts of attainder were speedily passed against some two thousand Protestant landed proprietors, all of whom had obtained their lands by the settlement of Cromwell. A land tax was voted to the king, of twenty thousand pounds a month, and he proceeded to raise other levies by his private authority. The result was that the resources of Ireland were speedily exhausted, money almost disappeared, and James, being at his wits' end for funds, issued copper money stamped with the value of gold and silver; and a law was passed making this base money legal tender, promising that, at the end of the war, it should be exchanged for sterling money. This was a measure which inflicted enormous loss and damage. At first, the people raised the prices of goods in proportion to the decrease in the value of the money, but James stopped this, by issuing a proclamation fixing the prices at which all articles were to be sold; and having done this, proceeded to buy up great quantities of hides, butter, corn, wood, and other goods, paying for them all with a few pounds of copper and tin, and then shipping them to France, where they were sold on his own account. It need hardly be said that conduct of this kind speedily excited great dissatisfaction, even among those who were most loyal in his cause. Captain Davenant was shocked at the state of things he found prevailing in Dublin. "I regret bitterly," he said, when alone with his wife and mother, "that I have taken up the sword. Success appears to me to be hopeless. The folly of the Stuarts is incredible. They would ruin the best cause in the world. With a spark of wisdom and firmness, James might have united all Ireland in his cause, instead of which he has absolutely forced the Protestants into hostility. His folly is only equalled by his rapacity, and both are stupendous." This was said, one evening, when he had just returned from a visit to Dublin, depressed and disheartened by all he heard there. "I am astonished, Fergus," his mother said sharply, "to hear you speak in that way. Who would have thought that it was a Davenant who was speaking! Doubtless there have been mistakes, as was only natural, but everything will come right, in time. I have been longing for you to come home, looking forward with such joy to welcome you as the possessor of the broad lands of the Davenants. Thank God I have lived to see the restoration of my dear husband's lands, and the discomfiture of those Cromwellian knaves, who have so long possessed them. It was a grand day when the act was passed, repealing all Cromwell's grants handing over the best part of Ireland to his soldiers; and I saw in the Gazette, among the two thousand grants specially mentioned as cancelled, was that of the Davenant estate to Zephaniah Whitefoot. I am told that the old man and his son have taken no notice of the act, but go about their work as if they were still the owners of the land; but of course, now that you are back, there will soon be an end of this." Captain Davenant was silent. "I shall be in no hurry, mother," he said, after a pause. "It is true that an act of the Irish parliament has cancelled the iniquitous work of Cromwell, and restored the land to its rightful possessors. I do not say that this is not just, but I am quite sure that it is not politic. These men have been planted on the soil for two generations. They have built houses and tilled the fields, and made homes for themselves. It was essentially a case for arrangement, and not for setting right the first act of confiscation by another as sweeping. It has rendered the Protestants desperate. It has enlisted the sympathy of the Protestants of England in their behalf, and has done much to popularize the war there. It would have been vastly wiser, had a commission been ordered to examine into the circumstances of each case. "In the great proportion of cases, the estates which the Cromwellites took possession of were vastly larger than they were able to till themselves; and, as in the case of Zephaniah Whitefoot, they let out the greater portion to tenants. All these lands I would have restored to their former owners, leaving to the Cromwellites the land they till themselves, and the houses they have built upon it. "As to turning the Whitefoots out, I shall certainly take no step that way, at present. It will be time enough to do so, when King James is firmly established on the throne. As things go at present, I have but very faint hopes that will ever be. He has utterly failed to conquer the Protestants of the north of Ireland, and we have all the strength of England to cope with, yet. It will be well, mother, if, at the end of this strife, we can keep Davenant Castle over our heads, with the few acres that still remain to us." Two days afterwards, Captain Davenant mounted his horse and rode over to the Whitefoots. Zephaniah and Jabez came to the door. "I suppose you have come over to turn us out, Fergus Davenant," the old man said; "but I warn you, that it will not be for long. The triumph of the ungodly is short, and the Lord will care for his own people." "You are mistaken," Captain Davenant said quietly. "I have come over for no such purpose. I am, of course, aware that parliament has passed a law, reinstating me in my father's lands; but I came over to tell you that, at present, I do not propose to take advantage of that law. I shall do nothing, until this war is at an end. If King William's cause triumphs, the act will remain a dead letter. If King James's wins, and the act is upheld, I wish to tell you that I shall never disturb you in the land which you, yourselves, occupy. Your tenants, on the other hand, will be my tenants; but in the house which you have built, and in the fields which you have tilled, you will remain masters. "I have thought the matter over, and this appears to me to be a just settlement, and one which I give you my word that I will hold to, should King James triumph in the end. I think that the law turning out the Protestant settlers, from the land which they have held for forty years, is well nigh as unjust as that which gave it to them." "I will take no gifts at the hands of the wicked," Zephaniah began, but Jabez interrupted him. "Hush, father!" he said. "It is not thus that kindness should be met." Then he stepped forward, leaving his father too surprised, at this sudden assumption of command on the part of his son, to interrupt him. "Captain Davenant," he said, "I thank you most sincerely, on the part of myself, my wife and son, and, I may say, of my father, too, although at present he may not realize the kindness of your offer. I do not think it likely that, if James Stuart prevails, and Ireland is rent from England, we shall avail ourselves of your offer, for we have more than sufficient of this world's goods to remove to England, and there settle ourselves and our son, for assuredly Ireland would be no place where a Protestant could dwell in peace and quietness. Nevertheless, I thank you heartily, and shall ever gratefully bear in mind the promise you have made, and the fact that, although you have the power to turn us from our home, you have stayed from doing so. There has been much wrong done on both sides; and, from a boy, when I have seen you ride into or from your home, I have felt that I and mine wronged you, by being the possessors of your father's lands." "They were the spoil of battle," Zephaniah broke in fiercely. "Yes, they were the spoil of battle," his son repeated; "but there are limits, even to the rights of conquerors. I have read history, and I know that nowhere but in Ireland did conquerors ever dispossess whole peoples, and take possession of their lands." "The Israelites took the land of Canaan," Zephaniah interrupted. "I am speaking of modern wars, father. For centuries, no such act of wholesale spoliation was ever perpetrated; and considering, as I do, that the act was an iniquitous one, although we have benefited by it, I consider the offer which Captain Davenant has made to us to be a noble one. "I have to thank you, sir, also, for your kindness to my son--a kindness which doubtless saved his life, as well as that of many others in Londonderry; and believe me that, whatever comes of this horrible war, I and mine will never forget the kindnesses we have received at your hands." "The affair was my son's, rather than mine," Captain Davenant said; "but I was glad to be able to assist him in aiding your brave boy. He is a noble fellow, and you have every reason to be proud of him." "I must add my thanks to those of my husband," Hannah said, coming out from the house, having listened to the conversation through an open window. "We had suffered so, until your son brought us news of John, two days since. It is strange, indeed, that your son should have been the means of saving one of a household whom he cannot but have learnt to regard as the usurpers of his father's rights. It was but last night I was reading of Jonathan and David, and it seemed to me that, assuredly, the same spirit that they felt for each other was in our sons." "The boys are very fond of each other, Mrs. Whitefoot, and I am glad of it. They are both manly fellows, and there is no reason why the feuds of the fathers should descend to the children." With a cordial goodbye, Captain Davenant rode off. "Jabez," Zephaniah said, as they turned into the house, "I had not thought to hear a son of mine rise in rebellion against his father." "Father," Jabez said, "for forty-five years I have been a good son to you; but it is time that I took my stand. It seems to me that the principles upon which the soldiers of Cromwell fought, were the principles which animated the Israelites of old. Exodus, Judges, and Kings were the groundwork of their religion, not the Gospels. It has gradually been borne upon me that such is not the religion of the New Testament, and, while I seek in no way to dispute your right to think as you choose, I say the time has come when I and my wife will act upon our principles." "It is written, Honour thy father and thy mother," Zephaniah said sternly. "Ay, father, I have honoured you, and I shall honour you to the end; but a man has no right to give up his conscience to his father; for it is written, also, that a man shall leave father and mother, and wife and home to follow the Lord. I have heard you, father, and the elders of our church, quote abundant texts from Scripture, but never one, that I can recall, from the New Testament. Hitherto, I have been as an Israelite of Joshua's time. Henceforward, I hope to be a Christian. I grieve to anger you, father, and for years I have held my peace rather than do so; but the time has come when the spirit within me will no longer permit me to hold my peace. In all worldly matters, I am still your obedient son, ready to labour to my utmost to gather up wealth which I do not enjoy, to live a life as hard as that of the poorest tenant on our lands; but, as touching higher matters, I and my wife go our own way." Without a word, Zephaniah took his hat and strode away from the house, and, after much angry communing with himself, went to the minister and deacons of his chapel, and laid the facts of the rebellion before them, and asked their advice. They were in favour of peace, for two of them were his tenants, and they knew that the time could not be very far off when Jabez would take the old man's place, and it would be a serious matter, indeed, to the chapel, were he to be driven from its fold. "We cannot expect that all shall see with our eyes, Zephaniah," the minister said, "and, indeed, the offer, which thou sayest the man Davenant made, was a generous one. It would be well, indeed, for our brethren throughout Ireland, did all the original owners of their lands so treat them. Thousands who, but a few months since, were prosperous men, are now without a shelter wherein to lay their heads. The storm is sweeping over us, the elect are everywhere smitten, and, should James Stuart conquer, not a Protestant in Ireland but must leave its shores. Therefore, although I would counsel no giving up of principle, no abandonment of faith, yet I would say that this is no time for the enforcement of our views upon weak vessels. I mourn that your son should, for the time, have fallen away from your high standard, but I say it were best to be patient with him." At home, there were few words spoken after Zephaniah had gone out. Hannah had thrown her arms round her husband's neck, and had said: "I thank God for your words, Jabez. Now I am proud of you, as I have never been proud before, that you have boldly spoken out for liberty of conscience. I feel like one who has for many years been a slave, but who is, at last, free." Jabez kissed her, but was silent. To him, it had been a great trial to rebel. He knew that he was right, and would have done it again, if necessary; but it was a terrible thing to him to have openly withstood the father to whom he had, from childhood, rendered almost implicit obedience. On his return, Zephaniah did not renew the subject; but from that time, there was a great change in the moral atmosphere of the house. Zephaniah was still master in all matters of daily work; but in other respects, Jabez had completely emancipated himself.	{ "id": "18356" }
6	: Dundalk.	After the failure before Derry, the utmost confusion prevailed in the military councils, arising chiefly from the jealousies and conflicting authorities of the French and Irish commanders. James was entirely under the control of the French ambassador, who, together with all his countrymen in Ireland, affected to despise the Irish as a rude and uncivilized people; while the Irish, in turn, hated the French for their arrogance and insolence. Many of the Irish gentlemen, who had raised regiments at their private expense, were superseded to make room for Frenchmen, appointed by the influence of the French ambassador. These gentlemen returned home in disgust, and were soon followed by their men, who were equally discontented at being handed over to the command of foreigners, instead of their native leaders. Every day, the breach widened between the French and Irish, and the discontent caused by the king's exactions was wide and general; and if William, at this time, had offered favourable terms to the Catholics, it is probable that an arrangement could have been arrived at. But William was busily at work, preparing an army for the conquest of the country. Had Ireland stood alone, it is probable that England would, at any rate for a time, have suffered it to go its own way; but its close alliance with France, and the fact that French influence was all powerful with James, rendered it impossible for England to submit to the establishment of what would be a foreign and hostile power, so close to her shores. Besides, if Ireland remained under the dominion of James, the power of William on the throne of England could never have been consolidated. Although he had met with no resistance on his assumption of the throne, he had the hearty support of but a mere fraction of the English people, and his accession was the work of a few great Whig families, only. His rule was by no means popular, and his Dutch favourites were as much disliked, in England, as were James' French adherents in Ireland. In Scotland, the Jacobite party were numerous and powerful, and were in open rebellion to his authority. Thus, then, if William's position on the throne of England was to be consolidated, it was necessary that a blow should be struck in Ireland. Torn by dissension, without plan or leading, the Irish army remained, for months, inactive; most of the regiments having, after the northern campaign, returned to the districts in which they were raised; and thus, no preparation was made to meet the army which was preparing to invade the country. This, ten thousand strong, under the command of General Schomberg, who, although eighty years of age, was still an able, active, and spirited commander, embarked on the 8th of August at Chester, and on the 13th landed near Bangor, in Carrickfergus Bay. There was no force there of sufficient strength to oppose him. Schomberg found Antrim and Belfast deserted; but the garrison at Carrickfergus, consisting of two regiments, prepared vigorously for a siege. Schomberg at once prepared to invest it, and in a short time attacked it by land and sea. The siege was pressed with vigour, but the garrison, under M'Carty Moore, defended themselves with the greatest skill and bravery. As fast as breaches were battered in their walls, they repaired them, and repulsed every attempt of the besiegers to gain a footing in the town. The garrison were badly supplied with ammunition, but they stripped the lead from the roofs of the castle and church to make bullets. But all this time, no attempt whatever was made to relieve them. The French and Irish generals were disputing as to what was the best plan of campaign. The king was busy making money with his trade with France; and, after holding out until they had burned their last grain of powder, the gallant garrison were forced to capitulate. Schomberg was too glad to get the place to insist on hard terms, and the garrison marched out with all the honours of war--drums beating, and matches alight--and were conveyed, with all their stores, arms, and public and private property, to the nearest Irish post. The effect of this determined resistance, on the part of the little garrison at Carrickfergus, was to impress Schomberg with the fact that the difficulty of the task he had undertaken was vastly greater than he had supposed. The success with which Londonderry had defended itself against the Irish army had impressed him with the idea that the levies of King James were simply contemptible; but the fighting qualities of the garrison of Carrickfergus had shown him that they were a foe by no means to be despised, and convinced him that the force at his command was altogether inadequate to his necessities. He therefore moved south with extreme caution. He found the country altogether wasted and deserted. The Protestants had long since fled, and were gathered round Derry and Enniskillen. The Catholics had now deserted their homes, at his approach; and the troops, in their retreat, had burned and wasted everything, so that he had no means of subsistence for his army, and was obliged to rely upon the fleet, which he ordered to follow him down the coast. Schomberg was soon joined by three regiments of Enniskillen horse. The appearance of these troops astonished the English. They resembled rather a horde of Italian banditti than a body of European cavalry. They observed little order in their military movements, and no uniformity of dress or accoutrement. Each man was armed and clad according to his own fancy, and accompanied by a mounted servant, carrying his baggage. But, like the Cossacks, whom they closely resembled, they were distinguished by an extreme rapidity of movement, and a fierceness and contempt of all difficulty and danger. They calculated neither chances nor numbers, but rushed to the attack of any foe with a ferocity and fanaticism which almost ensured success, and they regarded the slaughter of a Papist as an acceptable service to the Lord. They plundered wherever they went, and were a scourge to the Irish Protestants as well as Catholics. The troops furnished by Derry were similar in character to those from Enniskillen. They could not endure the restraints of discipline, and were little use in acting with the regular army, and, like the Cossacks, were formidable only when acting by themselves. Schomberg and his successor, and, indeed, the whole of the English officers, soon came to abhor these savage and undisciplined allies. Still, the Irish army made no move. Report had magnified Schomberg's strength to more than twice its real numbers, and the military leaders could not believe that, after so many months of preparation, William had despatched so small an army for the conquest of Ireland. Confusion and dismay reigned in Dublin. The French Marshal, De Rosen, advised that Dublin and Drogheda should be abandoned, and that the Irish army should be concentrated at Athlone and Limerick; but Tyrconnell went to Drogheda, where the council of war was sitting, and strenuously opposed this, promising that by the next night twenty thousand men should be assembled there. Expresses were sent out in all directions; and by forced marches, the Irish troops stationed in Munster directed their course to Drogheda, in high spirits and anxious to meet the enemy. Schomberg, although he had been reinforced by six thousand men from England, fell back at the news of the gathering, and formed an intrenched camp in a strong position between Dundalk and the sea. His approaches were covered by mountains, rivers, and morasses; his communication was open to the sea, and here he resolved to wait for reinforcements. Captain Davenant became more and more despondent as to the cause in which he had embarked. "Without the king, and without his French allies," he said bitterly to his wife, "we might hope for success; but these are enough to ruin any cause. Were the king's object to excite discontent and disgust among his subjects, he could not act otherwise than he is now doing. His whole thoughts are devoted to wringing money out of the people, and any time he has to spare is spent upon superintending the building of the nunneries, in which he is so interested. As to the French, they paralyse all military operations. They regard us as an inferior race, and act as if, with their own five or six thousand troops, they could defeat all the power of England. It is heartbreaking seeing our chances so wasted. "Had advantage been taken of the enthusiasm excited when King James landed; had he himself been wise and prudent, disinterested for himself, and desirous of obtaining the affections of all classes; and had he brought with him none of these French adventurers, he would, long ere this, have been undisputed King of Ireland from end to end, and we should have stood as one people in arms, ready to oppose ourselves to any force that England could send against us. Never were chances so frittered away, never such a succession of blunders and folly. It is enough to break one's heart." "I do hope, father, that when the troop marches again you will take me as cornet. I am six months older than I was, and have learned a lot in the last campaign. You have not filled up the place of Cornet O'Driscoll. I did think, when he was killed in that last fight you had before Derry, you would have appointed me." "In some respects I am less inclined than ever, Walter," Captain Davenant said; "for I begin to regard success as hopeless." "It will make no difference, father, in that way, for if we are beaten they are sure to hand all our land over to the Protestants. Besides, things may turn out better than you think; and whether or no, I should certainly like to do my best for Ireland." "Well, we will think about it," Captain Davenant said; and Walter was satisfied, for he felt sure that his father would finally accede to his wishes. It was late at night, when the mounted messenger dashed up to the door of the castle and handed in an order. Captain Davenant opened it. "We are to march, in half an hour's time, to Drogheda. The whole army is to assemble there." "Hurray!" Walter shouted. "Something is going to be done, at last." A man was sent down to the village at once, to order the twenty men quartered there to saddle and mount instantly, and ride up to the castle; while another, on horseback, started for Bray to get the main body under arms. Mrs. Davenant busied herself in packing the wallets of her husband and son. She was very pale, but she said little. "God bless you both," she said, when all was finished, "and bring you back again safely. I won't ask you to take care of yourselves, because, of course, you must do your duty, and with all my love I should not wish you to draw back from that. When home and religion and country are at stake, even we women could not wish to keep those we love beside us." There was a last embrace, and then Captain Davenant and his son sprang on their horses, which were waiting at the door, took their place at the head of the party which had come up from the village, and rode away into the darkness, while the two Mrs. Davenants gave free vent to the tears which they had hitherto so bravely restrained. At Bray, Captain Davenant found the rest of his troop drawn up in readiness, and after a brief inspection, to see that all were present with their proper arms and accoutrements, he started with them for Dublin, and after a few hours' rest there continued his way towards Drogheda. The army then proceeded north to Dundalk, and bitter was the disappointment of the troops when, on arriving there, they found that Schomberg, instead of advancing to give battle, had shut himself up in the intrenchments he had formed, and could not be induced to sally out. In vain King James, who accompanied his army, formed it up in order of battle within sight of the invaders' lines. Schomberg was not to be tempted out, and, as the position appeared to be too strong to be attacked, the Irish were forced to endeavour to reduce it by the slow process of starvation. The English army was soon reduced to pitiable straits--not from hunger, for they were able to obtain food from the ships, but from disease. The situation of the camp was low and unhealthy. Fever broke out, and swept away vast numbers of the men. The Dutch and Enniskilleners suffered comparatively little--both were accustomed to a damp climate. But of the English troops, nearly eight thousand died in the two months that the blockade lasted. Had James maintained his position, the whole of the army of Schomberg must have perished; but, most unfortunately for his cause, he insisted on personally conducting operations, and when complete success was in his grasp he marched his army away, in the middle of November, to winter quarters; thereby allowing Schomberg to move, with the eight thousand men who remained to him, from the pest-stricken camp to healthier quarters. The disgust, of those of James's officers who understood anything of war, at this termination of the campaign was extreme. The men, indeed, were eager to return to their homes, but would gladly have attempted an assault on the English camp before doing so; and, as the defenders were reduced to half their original strength, while most of the survivors were weakened by disease, the attack would probably have been successful. James himself was several times on the point of ordering an attack, but his own vacillation of character was heightened by the conflicting counsels of his generals, who seemed more bent on thwarting each other than on gaining the cause for which they fought. The cavalry were not idle, while the blockade of Schomberg's camp continued, frequently making excursions over the country to bring in cattle for the army; for the villagers had, for the most part, deserted their homes, and herds of cattle were grazing without masters. One day, Captain Davenant's troop had ridden some thirty miles out of camp, and had halted for the night in a village. In the morning, they broke up into small parties and scattered round the country. Walter, with fifteen of the troopers, had collected some cattle and stopped for an hour, to feed and rest the horses, in a deserted village. He took the precaution to place two or three men on sentry round it. The men were sitting on the doorsteps, eating the food they had brought with them, when one of the outposts dashed in at full gallop, shouting that the enemy were upon them; but his warning came too late, for, close behind him, came a body of wild-looking horsemen, shouting and yelling. There was a cry of "The Enniskilleners!" and the men ran to their horses. They had scarcely time to throw themselves in the saddle, when the Enniskilleners charged down. For a minute or two there was a confused medley, and then three or four of the troopers rode off at full speed, hotly pursued by the Enniskilleners. Walter had discharged his pistols and drawn his sword, but before he had time to strike a blow, his horse was rolled over by the rush of the enemy, and, as he was falling, he received a blow on the head from a sabre which stretched him insensible on the ground. He was roused by two men turning him over and searching his pockets. A slight groan burst from his lips. "The fellow is not dead," one of the men said. "We will soon settle that," the other replied. "Don't kill him," the first speaker said. "Wait till the captain has spoken to him. We may be able to get some information from him. We can finish him afterwards." Walter lay with his eyes closed. He well knew that the Enniskilleners took no prisoners, but killed all who fell into their hands, and he determined to show no signs of returning consciousness. Presently, he heard the sound of a party of horsemen returning, and by the exclamations of disappointment which greeted the news they gave, he learned that some, at least, of his men had made their escape. Some time later, several men came up to him. One leaned over him, and put his hand to his heart. "He is alive." "Very well," another voice said. "Then we will take him with us. He is an officer, and will be able to tell us all about their strength. "Watkins, you have a strong beast, and do not weigh much. Do you mount, and then we will tie him to your back." A minute later Walter was lifted up, and felt that he was placed on a horse with his back to that of the rider. A rope was wound several times round his body. He remained perfectly passive, with his head hanging down on his breast. Then a word of command was given, and the troop set off. For a time, there was no need for him to pretend insensibility, for the pain of his wound and the loss of blood overpowered him, and for some time he was unconscious. After two hours' riding, the troop was halted. Walter felt the rope taken off him. Then he was lifted down, dragged a short distance, and thrown down on some straw. Then a door shut, and he heard a key turned. He felt sure that he was alone, but for some time lay perfectly quiet, as it was possible that one of the men might have remained to watch him. After a quarter of an hour, hearing not the slightest sound, he opened his eyes and looked round. He was, as he supposed, alone. The place in which he was lying was a stable, lighted only by a small opening high up in the wall. Certain, therefore, that he was not overlooked, he made an effort to rise to his feet, but he was so weak and giddy that he was obliged, for some time, to remain leaning against the wall. Seeing a bucket in one corner, he made to it, and found, to his delight, that it was half full of water, for he was parched with a devouring thirst. After taking a deep draught he felt greatly revived, and then made a thorough survey of his prison. It evidently formed part of the house of a well-to-do man, for it was solidly built of stone, and the door was strong and well fitted. The opening in the wall was out of his reach. He could, at ordinary times, by standing on the upturned bucket, have reached it with a spring, and pulled himself up to it, but at present he was wholly incapable of such exertion. He thought, however, that after a night's rest he would be able to do it. The door was so strong that he had no hope of escape in that direction. As he might at any moment be disturbed, he returned to the straw on which he had at first been thrown, laid himself down, and in a very short time dropped off to sleep. It was dark, before he was awoke by the turning of the key in the lock, and two men entered, one of them bearing a horn lantern. "Where am I?" Walter asked, in a feeble tone, as they approached him. "Never mind where you are," one said roughly. "Get up." Walter seemed to make an effort, and then fell back with a groan. The man repeated his order, emphasizing it with a kick. Walter again made an effort, and, as before, sank back. "Here, catch hold of him," the man said, impatiently, "it's no use fooling here with him." The men took Walter under the arms and lifted him up, and half dragged, half carried him out of the stable and into the house adjoining. He was taken into a room where four or five men were sitting. "Now, young fellow," one said sharply, "tell us what corps you belong to." Walter looked stupidly at his questioner, but made no answer. "Answer my question," the man said, levelling a pistol at him, "or I will blow out your brains at once." Still Walter stared at him stupidly, and made no reply, except to mutter, "Water." "It's no use," one of the other men said. "He hasn't got his right senses yet. It's no use shooting him now, after we have had the trouble of bringing him here. In the morning, he will be able to answer you." "He had better," the other said savagely, "or we will light a fire and roast him over it. There, take him back to the stable, and give him a drink of water. I don't want him to slip through our fingers, after the trouble we have had with him." Walter was taken back, as before, to the stable, and one of the men brought him a mug of water, and held it to his lips. He drank eagerly, and then the man placed the mug down beside him, the door was again closed and locked, and Walter was alone. He rose at once to his feet, and felt that his sleep had greatly refreshed and strengthened him. "I will have another sleep, before I try," he said to himself. "It will not be light till six, and it must be eight or nine o'clock now. I must make up my mind, before I doze off, to wake in about three or four hours; but first, I must see what I can find, here." He felt round the walls, but failed to find anything like a rope. "I must trust to luck," he said; "I don't suppose they will post many sentries. These fellows are not real soldiers, and no doubt they will all be sound asleep in a couple of hours." So saying, he again lay down, and was speedily asleep. When he woke, he felt sure that he had not exceeded the time he had given himself. He listened intently. He could hear a low, confused sound, which he knew was made by horses feeding, but he could hear no human voices. He drank the rest of the water in the mug, then he turned up the bucket, placed it under the opening, and mounted on it. His first spring failed to reach the sill, and he stood for a few minutes, before making another attempt. He knew that it was a matter of life or death, for he had no doubt whatever that, even if he gave the required information, which he was determined not to do, however much he might suffer, he would be shot afterwards. He braced himself to the utmost, took a long breath, and then sprang. His fingers caught on the ledge of stonework, and, with a desperate effort, he drew himself up, aided by his feet. He had, before making the attempt, removed his boots, partly to avoid the scraping noise which these would make, partly to enable him the better to avail himself of the inequalities in the stonework. It was a desperate struggle; and when he got his shoulders in the opening, which was just wide enough to admit them, he lay for three or four minutes, panting heavily, with the perspiration streaming down his face. The aperture was too small to admit of his turning in any way, and there was nothing for it, as he knew, but to drop head foremost. Gradually, he drew himself through the opening, lowering himself as much as he could by holding on to the upper edge by his feet. Then, stretching out his arms to save himself, he let go. Fortunately, the ground was soft, for a garden adjoined the stable; but the shock was a heavy one, and he lay for a minute or two without moving, having some doubt whether he had not broken his neck. Then he got up, and listened. Everything was still and quiet, and, indeed, his fall had been almost noiseless. He rose to his feet, felt along the wall until he encountered a low paling, climbed over it, and was in the road. He had, when he jumped for the window, tied his boots to his back, and now carried them in his hand. The night was very dark; but his eyes, accustomed to the greater darkness of the stable, had no difficulty in following the road. He walked slowly, for the exertion he had undergone and the shock of the fall had drawn greatly from his small stock of strength. After going a quarter of a mile, he put on his boots, and, climbing a wall of sods which bordered the road, struck across country. There were no stars to guide him, and a slight mist had begun to fall. There was but little wind, but this was sufficient to give a direction to the rain. Walter noticed this, and at once struck out in a direction which kept the rain falling upon the right side of his face; and he knew that, by so continuing, he was going in a tolerably straight line. As near as he could tell he walked for two hours, and then, utterly exhausted, lay down on the lee side of a turf wall. There was, as yet, no gleam of light in the sky, and in a very few minutes he was again sound asleep. He woke up with a feeling of bitter cold, and, on rising, found that his limbs were completely stiffened by the wet. It was morning now, the wind had got up, and a driving rain shut out the view on all sides. Walter stamped his feet and swung his arms for some time to restore the circulation. He had no idea in which direction he had been travelling, for he did not know whether the road from which he had started ran north, south, east, or west. He noticed that the wind had changed; for, whereas he had lain down under the lee of the wall, it was now the weather side. He walked in the same direction as before for two hours, and could then go no farther. He had seen no signs of human habitation, and had not crossed a road or even a footpath. Since starting in the morning he had passed no more walls or fences, and, as far as his eye could reach through the driving rain, nothing was to be seen save a desolate expanse of moor and bog. He was, at any rate, free from pursuit for the time, and he thought more of obtaining food and shelter than of the Enniskilleners. It was useless pushing further on, even had he been able to do so, while the rain lasted; for he might have passed within a quarter of a mile of a habitation without seeing it. He accordingly threw himself down beside some low bushes, which afforded him some slight protection from the rain.	{ "id": "18356" }
7	: The Coming Battle.	Some hours passed, and he was on the point of dropping off to sleep again, when he heard a whistle repeated once or twice, followed by the sharp bark of a dog. It was but a short distance away, and, leaping to his feet, he saw a peasant standing at a distance of two or three hundred yards. Walter hurried towards him at a speed of which, a few minutes before, he would have thought himself incapable. The man continued whistling, at short intervals, and did not notice Walter till he was within twenty yards distant; then he turned sharply round. "Who are you?" he asked, clubbing a heavy stick which he held in his hand, and standing on the defensive. The dress and appearance of the man assured Walter that he was a Catholic, and therefore a friend, and he replied at once: "I belong to one of the Irish troops of horse. The Enniskilleners surprised a party of us, yesterday, and wounded me, as you see. Fortunately, I escaped in the night, or they would have finished me this morning. I have been out all night in the rain, and am weak from loss of blood and hunger. Can you give me shelter?" "That I can," the man said, "and gladly. Those villains have been killing and destroying all over the country, and there's many a one of us who, like myself, have been driven to take refuge in the bogs." "Is it far?" Walter asked; "for I don't think I could get more than a mile or two." "It is not half a mile," the man said. "You do look nearly done for. Here, lean on me, I will help you along; and if you find your strength go, I will make a shift to carry you." "It is lucky I heard you whistle," Walter said. "It is, indeed," the man replied, "for it is not likely anyone else would have come along today. My dog went off after a rabbit, and I was whistling to him to come to me again. "Ah! Here he is. He has got the rabbit, too. Good dog! Well done!" He took the rabbit and dropped it into the pocket of his coat. Seeing that Walter was too exhausted to talk, he asked no questions, and said nothing till he pointed to a low mound of earth, and said: "Here we are." He went round by the side; and Walter perceived that there was a sharp dip in the ground, and that the hut was dug out in the face of the slope; so that, if it were approached either from behind or on either side, it would not be noticed, the roof being covered with sods, and closely matching the surrounding ground. The man went to the low door, and opened it. "Come in, sir," he said; "you are quite welcome." The hut contained two other men, who looked up in surprise at the greeting. "This is a young officer, in one of our horse regiments," the man said. "He has been in the hands of the Enniskilleners, and has got out from them alive--which is more than most can say. He has had a bad wound, has been wet through for hours, and is half starving. Look sharp, lads, and get something hot, as soon as possible. "Now, sir, if you will take off those wet things of yours, and wrap yourself in that rug, you will find yourself the better for it. When a man is in health, a few hours wet will not do him any harm; but when he is weak from loss of blood, as you are, the cold seems to get into his bones." Fresh turfs were at once put on the smouldering fire, which one of the men, leaning down before it, proceeded to blow lustily; and, although much of the smoke made its way out through a hole in the roof, enough lingered to render it difficult for Walter to breathe, while his eyes watered with the sharp fumes. A kettle had been placed on the fire, and in a very short time, a jar was produced from the corner of the hut, and a horn of strong spirits and water mixed. "Here are some cold praties, sir. It's all we have got cooked by us now, but I can promise you a better meal, later on." Walter ate the potatoes, and drank the warm mixture. The change from the cold damp air outside, to the warm atmosphere of the hut, aided the effects of the spirits; he was first conscious of a warm glow all over him, and then the voices of the men seemed to grow indistinct. "You had better stretch yourself on that pile of rushes," the man said, as Walter gave a start, being on the point of rolling over. "Two or three hours' sleep will make a man of you, and by that time dinner will be ready, and your clothes dry." Walter fell almost instantaneously off to sleep, and it was late in the afternoon before he woke. "I am afraid I must have slept a long time," he said, sitting up. "You have had a fine sleep, surely," one of the men replied; "and it's dinner and supper, all in one, that you will have." Walter found his uniform and underclothes neatly folded up by his side, and speedily dressed himself. "That sleep has done me a world of good," he said. "I feel quite myself again." "That's right, yer honour. When you've had your food, I will make a shift to dress that wound at the back of yer head. Be jabbers, it's a hard knock you have had, and a mighty lot of blood you must have lost! Yer clothes was just stiff with it; but I washed most of it out. "And now, lads, off with the pot!" A large pot was hanging over the fire, and, when the lid was taken off, a smell very pleasant to Walter's nostrils arose. Four flat pieces of wood served the purpose of plates, and, with a large spoon of the same material, the man who had brought Walter to the hut, and who appeared to be the leader of the party, ladled out portions of the contents. These consisted of rabbit and pieces of beef, boiled up with potatoes and onions. A large jug filled with water, and a bottle of spirits were placed in the centre, with the horn which Walter had before used beside it. "We are short of crockery," the man said with a laugh. "Here are some knives, but as for forks, we just have to do without them." Walter enjoyed his meal immensely. After it was finished, the wooden platters were removed, and the jug replenished. "Now, your honour, will you tell us how you got away from the Protestant rebels, and how was it they didn't make short work of you, when they caught you? It's a puzzle to us entirely, for the Enniskilleners spare neither man, woman, nor child." Walter related the whole circumstances of his capture, imprisonment, and escape. "You fooled them nicely," the man said, admiringly. "Sure your honour's the one to get out of a scrape--and you little more than a boy." "And what are you doing here?" Walter asked, in return. "This seems a wild place to live in." "It's just that," the man said. "We belonged to Kilbally. The Enniskilleners came that way, and burned it to the ground. They murdered my wife and many another one. I was away cutting peat with my wife's brother here. When we came back, everything was gone. A few had escaped to the bogs, where they could not be followed; the rest was, every mother's son of them, killed by those murdering villains. Your honour may guess what we felt, when we got back. Thank God I had no children! We buried the wife in the garden behind the house, and then started away and joined a band of rapparees, and paid some of them back in their own coin. Then, one day, the Enniskilleners fell on us, and most of us were killed. Then we made our way back to the old village, and came up here and built us this hut. It's a wonder to us how you got here; for there are bogs stretching away in all directions, and how you made your way through them bates us entirely." "Yours is a sad story, but unfortunately a common one. And how have you managed to live here?" "There are plenty of potatoes, for the digging of 'em," the man said, "for there are a score of ruined villages within a day's walk. As for meat, there are cattle for the taking, wandering all over the country; some have lately strayed away; but among the hills there are herds which have run wild since the days when Cromwell made the country a desert. As for spirits, I brew them myself. Barley as well as potatoes may be had for the taking. Then, sometimes, the dog picks up a rabbit. Sometimes, when we go down for potatoes, we light on a fowl or two; there's many a one of them running wild among the ruins. As far as eating and drinking goes, we never did better; and if I could forget the old cottage, and the sight that met my eyes when I went back to it, I should do well enough, but, night and day I am dreaming of it, and my heart is sore with longing for vengeance." "Why don't you join the army?" Walter asked. "There's plenty of room for good men, and yesterday's affair has made some vacancies in my own troop. "What do you say, lads? You would have a chance of crossing swords with the Enniskilleners, and you could always come back here when the war is over." "What do you say, boys?" the man asked his companions. "I am just wearying for a fight, and I could die contented, if I could but send a few of those murdering villains to their place, before I go." The other two men at once agreed. They talked well into the night, and Walter heard many tales of the savage butchery of unoffending peasants, by the men who professed to be fighting for religious liberty, which shocked and sickened him. It was arranged that they should start on the following morning. The men said that they could guide him across country to Dundalk without difficulty, and assured him that he would be little likely to meet with the enemy, for that the whole country had been so wasted, by fire and sword, as to offer but little temptation even to the most insatiable of plunderers. Accordingly, the next morning they set out, and arrived late that evening at the camp. Walter found that his father and his followers were absent. They had returned, much surprised at not having been rejoined by Walter's party, but on their arrival they had found there the survivors of his command, who had ridden straight for Dundalk. After a few hours' stay, to rest the horses, Captain Davenant, with his own men and two of the troops of cavalry, had ridden out in search of the Enniskilleners. Larry, who had been almost wild with grief when the news of the surprise, and, as he believed, the death of Walter, had been brought in, had accompanied the cavalry. It was late on the following afternoon before they rode into camp. Larry was the first to come in, having received permission from Captain Davenant to gallop on ahead. They had met the enemy, and had inflicted a decisive defeat upon them, but the greater part had escaped, by taking to the hills on their wiry little horses, which were able to traverse bogs and quagmires impassable to the heavy troopers. Captain Davenant had closely questioned two or three wounded men who fell into his hands. These all declared that a young officer had been captured, in the previous fight, that he had been severely wounded, and carried away senseless, but that he had, in some extraordinary manner, managed to escape that night. This story had greatly raised Captain Davenant's hopes that Walter might yet be alive, a hope which he had not before allowed himself, for a moment, to indulge in; and as he neared Dundalk, he had readily granted leave for the impatient Larry to gallop on ahead, and discover if any news had been received of Walter. Larry's delight, at seeing his young master standing at the door of the tent, was extreme. He gave a wild whoop, threw his cap high up into the air, and then, without a word of greeting, turned his horse's head and galloped away again, at the top of his speed, to carry the good news to Captain Davenant. Half an hour later, the column rode into camp, and Walter was clasped in his father's arms. That evening, Walter's three companions were enrolled in the troop, and, hearing that there were vacancies for fifteen more, volunteered to return to the hills, and to bring back that number of men from the peasants hiding there. This mission they carried out, and, by the end of the week, Captain Davenant's troop was again made up to its full strength. The unsuccessful result of the siege of Schomberg's camp greatly damped Walter's enthusiasm. He had been engaged in two long and tedious blockades, and, with the exception of some skirmishes round Derry, had seen nothing whatever of fighting. Neither operation had been attended by any decisive result. Both had inflicted extreme misery and suffering upon the enemy, but in neither was the success aimed at attained. At the same time, the novelty of the life, the companionship of his father and the other officers of the regiment, and, not least, the good humour and fun of his attendant, Larry, had made the time pass far more cheerfully to him than to the majority of those in the army. As before, when the army arrived at Dublin, Captain Davenant's troop was posted in and around Bray, the greater portion of it being permitted to reside in their own homes, until again wanted for active service. Walter, on his return, was glad to find that his friend John Whitefoot had made his way home from Derry, and their pleasant intercourse was at once renewed. Schomberg's army, when moved to healthy quarters and bountifully supplied with all kinds of food and necessaries from England, speedily recovered their health and discipline, and, in a very short time, were again in condition to take the field. Early in February, 1690, Brigadier Wolseley, with a detachment of Enniskilleners and English, marched against Cavan. James had no longer an army with which he could oppose Schomberg's enterprises. While the latter had been recovering from the effects of his heavy losses, nothing had been done to put the Irish army in a condition to take the field again. They lacked almost every necessary for a campaign. No magazines had been formed to supply them, when they should again advance; and so short of forage were they, that it was considered impossible to make any move in force, until the grass should grow sufficiently to enable the horses to get into condition. Nevertheless, the Duke of Berwick marched with eight hundred men from Dublin, and Brigadier Nugent with a like force from West Meath and Longford, and arrived at Cavan a few hours before the English reached the town. The Irish force was composed entirely of infantry, with the exception of two troops of cavalry. The English force consisted of seven hundred foot, and three hundred cavalry. As Cavan did not offer any advantages in the way of defence, the Duke of Berwick moved his army out into the open field. The English lined the hedges, and stood on the defensive. The Irish horse commenced the battle with a furious charge on the Enniskilleners and dragoons, and drove them from the field; but the English infantry maintained their position so stoutly that, after a prolonged fight, the Irish retreated into a fort near the town. The English and Enniskilleners entered Cavan, and at once began to plunder the place. Hearing what was going on, the Duke of Berwick sallied out from his fort to attack them, and gained considerable advantage. Brigadier Wolseley, being unable to restore discipline among the Enniskilleners, who formed the great majority of his force, ordered the town to be set on fire in several places. The troops then collected, and repulsed the Irish with considerable loss. The Duke of Berwick had two hundred killed, amongst whom were Brigadier Nugent and many officers. As the Irish remained in possession of the fort, and the town was almost entirely destroyed by fire, Brigadier Wolseley returned with his force to Dundalk. Shortly afterwards, the Fort of Charlemont was invested by a strong detachment of Schomberg's army. Teigue O'Regan, the veteran governor, defended the place with the greatest bravery, and did not capitulate until the 14th of May, when the last ounce of provisions was consumed. The garrison were allowed honourable terms, and the eight hundred men who defended the place, with their arms and baggage, and some two hundred women and children, were allowed to march away. The Enniskilleners treated the Irish soldiers and their families with great brutality, as they passed along, but Schomberg humanely ordered that a loaf of bread should be given to each man at Armagh. The Irish army were not in condition to render any assistance to the hard pressed garrison of Charlemont, until after they had capitulated. In the meantime, a great army, which was to be led by King William in person, was being collected in England. It consisted of a strange medley, collected from almost every European nation--English, Scotch, Irish Protestants, French Huguenots, Dutch, Swedes, Danes, Brandenburghers, Swiss, Norwegians, and Hessians. More than half, indeed, were foreigners. All were well disciplined, armed, and clothed. In all, including the force under Schomberg, the army amounted to forty-three thousand men, and fifty cannon. King William landed at Carrickfergus, on the 14th of June, and the combined army at once began their southward march. Against this force, King James collected but twenty thousand men. Of these, six thousand were French. They had arrived, under the command of the Count de Lauzun, in March, but they had not increased the numbers of King James's troops, for he had been obliged to send, in exchange, an equal number of his best-trained soldiers, under Lord Mountcashel, for service in France. Of the fourteen thousand native troops, the Irish horse, which was raised and officered by Irish gentlemen, was excellent, but the infantry was composed for the most part of raw levies, but half armed, and the only artillery consisted of twelve guns, which had arrived with the infantry from France. It was a sad parting, when Captain Davenant and Walter left home for the front. The former was filled with gloomy forebodings. He could scarcely hope that the ill-trained levies of James could succeed against the vastly superior force, of disciplined troops, with whom they had now to cope; especially as the latter were led by an able and energetic general, while the former were hampered by the incompetence and vacillation of James. The day before they started, Captain Davenant rode over to the Whitefoots and had a talk with Jabez. "I know not how the campaign will go," he said. "If we are beaten, we shall probably retire to the west, and maintain the war there. In that case, Dublin will of course fall into the hands of William. Should this be so, I will ask you to reverse our late position, and to extend what assistance you can to my wife and mother. It may be that, if I do not return here, none will disturb them. I have not made myself obnoxious to my Protestant neighbours, and no one may take the trouble to bring it before the notice of the English that I am absent, fighting with the army of King James. If, however, they should do so, and the castle and what remains of the estates be confiscated, will you lend what aid you can to the ladies, and my younger boy, until I or Walter return from the war?" "That will I do, right gladly," Jabez said, heartily. "Should I hear any talk of what you speak of, I will go up to Dublin with some of our friends and ministers, and we will testify to the good relations which have existed between you and your Protestant neighbours, and entreat that no measures be taken against your estate. Should we not prevail, be assured that I will look after the comfort of the ladies, as if they were of my own family. "I can well understand that Mrs. Davenant, the elder, would not accept the shelter of our roof, whatever her extremity. She belongs to the generation of my father, and cannot forget the past; but I will see that they are well lodged in Bray, and have every protection from molestation and annoyance there. Should I find, as, alas! may be the case, that the spirit of religious persecution is fiercely abroad, I will consult with them, as to whether they may wish to cross the sea until you can join them, and will make arrangements, as they may direct, for their passage." "I am truly obliged to you," Captain Davenant said. "It will make me comfortable to know that, whatsoever may befall me, they will have a friend in these stormy times." "Say nought about it," Jabez replied. "Did not you and your son succour my boy in his extremity? If I do all, and more than all that I can in this matter, I shall not deem that we are quits." The Irish army moved forward to the Boyne, which William was approaching from the north. James's officers endeavoured to dissuade him from setting everything on the hazard of the battle. They represented that his army, though now quite unequal to the contest, was rapidly improving in skill and confidence in itself; that reinforcements were every day expected from France, which would at least make them equal to the enemy in numbers; that they were in want of arms, artillery, and stores, all which might be expected also from France, in a short period; and that their policy was clearly to protract the war, and wear out the enemy by a contest of posts and sieges. Unskilled as his troops might be in the field, they had proved themselves steady and resolute in the defence of fortified places. They held all the great fortresses of the kingdom, and it would be easy to provide for the defence of these, and to occupy William's army in small affairs, till the winter, when the climate would do execution upon the invaders, while the Irish would suffer little. Then would be the time to fight. In the meantime, it was urged, the intrigues the French were actively carrying out in Britain would have produced some effect. The French fleet was, every day, expected on the coast of England, and William would soon be compelled to return to that country, if not to recall the greater part of his army. In Scotland, too, the French were busy; and there were materials in that country for creating a powerful diversion. To fight now would be to forego every advantage, and to meet the views of William, whose obvious interest it was to bring the contest to an immediate decision, now, while every circumstance was in his favour. But James, who had hitherto shown nothing but timidity and hesitation, was now seized with an impulse of valour. Having acted with unfortunate cowardice before Derry, and Schomberg's camp at Dundalk, he was, as unfortunately, now seized with ardour to fight, when prudence and discretion would have been his best policy. But while James was determining to fight, in the teeth of the opinion and advice of his bravest officers, his true character was shown in his taking every precaution for his personal safety. He sent off his heavy baggage, and engaged a vessel, at Waterford, to convey him to France. William, on the other hand, was naturally eager for an early engagement. He was still very insecurely seated upon the English throne. The people were either discontented or indifferent. They looked with impatience and indignation at the crowd of Dutch officers and civilians, whom William had brought over with him; while the cold and ungracious manner of the king contrasted, most unfavourably, with the bearing to which they had been accustomed in English monarchs. In Scotland, the Jacobite spirit was gathering in strength, and William knew that, unless he speedily broke the strength of James's party in Ireland, he would very shortly be confronted with difficulties and dangers on all sides. The position which the Irish army occupied was a strong one. Its right rested upon Drogheda, a strong town in their possession. In front was the Boyne, with steep banks lined with thick hedges, with cottages scattered here and there, offering an excellent position for light troops. On the left, the Boyne turned almost at a right angle, and formed a defence on this flank. To the rear, the Irish position was covered by high hills and the village of Donore. Further back was the pass of Duleek. The hedges and cottages by the river side were occupied by the Irish infantry, and upon some little hillocks, which ran along the water's edge, they erected some light batteries. King William reconnoitred the position with great attention, and saw that it had been well chosen, and its advantages turned to account. Notwithstanding the reports of deserters and others, he showed much anxiety to determine the exact strength of the Irish. After examining the position for some time from a height, he rode down towards the river, accompanied by several of his officers. When within musket shot of the bank, near the ford and village of Old Bridge, he perceived that a small island in the Boyne was occupied by a party of the Irish horse. Near the ford some field works had been thrown up. It was at this point that the king determined to cross the river, and he spent some time conversing with his officers, as to the arrangements for the passage. He then rode slowly along the river bank, until he arrived nearly opposite the left of the Irish line. Here he alighted from his horse, and sat down on rising ground, watching his own battalions, which were marching, with the greatest regularity and order, into the positions assigned to them. While he was so engaged, some officers of James's army were observed, riding quietly along the opposite bank of the river, and also engaged in watching the movements of the British troops. These were General Sarsfield, the Duke of Berwick, the Marquis of Tyrconnell, the Count de Lauzun, and others. Some of the English dragoons approached the river, and were fired upon by the Irish. They returned the fire, and, while the attention of both sides was engaged by the skirmish, a party of Irish cavalry moved slowly down towards the river and halted behind a low hedge, and then, wheeling about, again retired. The movements of the king, and the group of officers accompanying him, had been observed in the Irish army, and two field pieces were sent down, concealed in the centre of the cavalry. The guns had been placed behind the hedge when the horsemen withdrew, and, when William rose from the ground and mounted his horse, fire was opened. The first cannon shot killed two horses, and a man by his side. The next grazed the king's right shoulder, tearing away his coat and inflicting a slight flesh wound. Had the aim been slightly more accurate, or had the gunners fired with grape, instead of round shot, it is probable that the whole course of history would have been changed. The rumour spread through both armies that the king was killed; but the wound was a slight one, and, having had it hastily bound up, the king rode quietly through the camps, in order to show the men that the hurt was not serious. In the evening, he called a council of war. The Duke of Schomberg was strongly opposed to an attack upon the enemy, while posted in so strong a position, and urged that, by making a turning movement and marching straight upon Dublin, the enemy would be obliged to fall back, and fight under less advantageous circumstances. But the king, relying upon his superior numbers and the discipline of his veteran troops, determined to attack at once, knowing that it was all important to bring the matter to a decision, as early as possible. Schomberg then urged the necessity of occupying the pass of Slane, upon the Boyne, considerably to the west of the Irish line, as he would thus cut off their retreat, and, in the event of victory, render their defeat a decided one; but the king saw that he should require his whole force to dislodge the Irish from their position, and that it was useless to occupy the pass of Slane with a small detachment, as these would be overwhelmed by the retiring Irish. It was twelve o'clock at night, before the council terminated, and then the king mounted his horse and rode through the camp. He examined into the state and preparation of each regiment, saw that the soldiers were abundantly supplied with food and refreshment for the morning, and that sufficient ammunition for the day's work had been served out. He directed the men to wear green branches in their caps, and gave "Westminster" as the word for the day. The order of the battle finally determined upon was that the right wing of the army, under General Douglas and Count Schomberg, son of the duke, should pass the river at Slane and endeavour to turn the Irish left, between Slane and Duleek. The left wing were to penetrate between the Irish right and Drogheda; the centre to force the passage of the river, at the ford of Old Bridge. A council was also held in James's camp, and here also there was difference of opinion. Some of the generals wished to hold the pass of Slane in force, but James decided against this. As the morning approached, the king's newborn courage began to die out. He ordered some movements to the rear, and sent forward more of his baggage. He would probably have declined the combat altogether, had it not been too late. Finally, just as day was breaking over the council, he determined that the army should retreat during the battle, and not commit themselves in a decisive engagement. The French formed the left, and were to lead the retreat, while the Irish held the right and centre. It is almost certain that, if James had kept to his resolution to fight, imprudent as it appeared to be, and had brought the French battalion into action, instead of leading them out of the field, the result of the battle of the Boyne would have been a very different one.	{ "id": "18356" }
8	: Boyne Water.	The morning of Tuesday, the 1st of July, 1690, broke calm and bright. At about six o'clock in the morning the English right wing, under General Douglas and Count Schomberg, marched towards Slane. It consisted of twenty-four squadrons of horse, and six battalions of infantry. As they marched along at the back of the river, they discovered several shallows, and crossed without proceeding as far as Slane. No serious resistance was offered to their passage of the Boyne, as the Irish had here only some parties of skirmishers, who fell back as they advanced. After forming the troops in order, Douglas and Schomberg advanced, but presently perceived the French battalions and a great part of the Irish cavalry, forming the left wing of James's army, drawn up in order at some distance. They consequently halted, and sent for reinforcements. When these arrived, they extended their lines to the right, so as to outflank the enemy, and, supporting their cavalry by alternate battalions of infantry, again moved forward. The Irish skirmishers fell back before their advance, taking advantage of the banks of the ditches, which divided the ground into small fields, and keeping up a galling fire upon the British as they advanced. With some difficulty, the latter passed over this broken ground and formed in order of battle, on the edge of what appeared to be a plain, but which was in fact a deep bog, which completely covered the Irish left. Here they came to a standstill. William had waited, until he believed that his right would have had time to fall upon the Irish left, and then ordered his centre to advance and force the passage at Old Bridge. The Dutch guards, whom William relied upon as his best and most trustworthy troops, advanced in splendid order to the river side, with their drums beating the march. When they reached the water's edge the drums ceased, and the soldiers entered the river. The stream rose as the dense column marched in and dammed it up, and the water reached the shoulders of the grenadiers, but they still moved on, in regular order, keeping their arms and ammunition dry by holding them above their heads. On the opposite bank, the hedges near the brink of the river were lined with skirmishers, while in the rear, in a hollow covered by some little hills, seven regiments of Irish infantry, supported by ten troops of horse and Tyrconnell's regiment of cavalry, were drawn up. The hills protected them from the fire of the British batteries, which passed over their heads. The Dutch troops continued their way unmolested, until they reached the middle of the river, when a hot fire was opened upon them from the Irish skirmishers; but the Dutch moved on, unshaken, and soon gained the opposite bank, where they rapidly formed up, the skirmishers retiring before them. Scarcely had the Dutch formed their squares, when the Irish horse burst down upon them at full speed, and charged them with impetuosity. They stood the charge unbroken, but again and again the Irish horse charged down upon them, with the greatest gallantry. William pushed two regiments of French Huguenots and one of British across the river, to the assistance of the Dutch guards, and ordered Sir John Hanmars and the Count of Nassau's regiment to cross, lower down the stream, to support them. As the supports were making a passage, General Hamilton advanced, at the head of a body of Irish infantry, to the water's edge, and, dashing into the river, encountered the French Huguenot regiments in the middle of the stream. A desperate fight ensued, but the French made their way across, and Hamilton, falling back with his infantry, opened to the right and left, permitting the Irish horse to charge through them. These rushed with fury upon the French regiment of Colonel La Callimot, and cut their way right through them. Then, wheeling, they charged them in flank again, broke them, and drove them into the river. La Callimot himself was killed, and but few of his regiment regained the opposite bank. In the meantime the Dutch guards, now reinforced, were advancing slowly, the Irish infantry holding fast to the hedges and brushwood, and contesting every inch of the ground, while, wherever the ground permitted it, the Irish horse burst down upon them, evincing a gallantry and determination which would have done honour to the finest cavalry in Europe. The king continued to make repeated efforts to support his Dutch troops, and, after the French were broken, he pushed forward the Danish horse; but no sooner had they crossed the bank than the Irish cavalry burst down upon them, broke them, and drove them back into the river. They fled across the stream in disorder, and dispersed in all directions. So far, success had rested principally with the Irish; the Dutch guards alone remained unbroken in the centre; the French infantry and Danish horse were broken and destroyed. Old Duke Schomberg exerted himself to the utmost, to restore the battle at this point, and, having rallied the French infantry advanced with them, and a few French cavalry, towards the river, where he was met by some of the Irish horse returning from the pursuit of the Danes. The old duke was cut down and his party again routed, and at the same moment Walker, the clerical commander of Derry, received a mortal wound. After his successful defence of Derry, this man had gone to London, where he had been feted and made much of, and had then attached himself to King William's army, where he posed as a high military authority, although much discouraged by the king, whom his arrogance and airs of authority displeased. While in the centre William's forces were getting worsted, and on his right Douglas and Count Schomberg were inactive and powerless, he himself was leading his left wing across the river. The passage was a difficult one, and the king himself was only extricated, with much exertion, from a quicksand into which his horse had plunged. The Irish did not oppose the crossing, and as soon as his forces were across the stream, William ranged them in order. They consisted of a large body of Danish, Dutch, and Enniskillen horse, and a considerable force of infantry. As soon as all were in order the king, though still suffering from the wound he had received the day before, drew his sword and put himself at the head of his troops. The Irish right wing, which consisted chiefly of infantry, moved forward to meet them, but perceiving the numerous cavalry, led by the king himself, preparing to take them in flank, they halted, faced about and marched slowly to the little hill of Donore. Having gained this point, they again faced round and charged down upon the British, who had followed them closely. At this moment the Irish cavalry, who had moved rapidly from the centre to the support of the right, charged down upon the Danish and Dutch horse led by the king, and no sooner had they come in contact than the Danes and Dutch turned and rode off, with the Irish cavalry in pursuit. The king rode towards the Enniskilleners. Colonel Wolseley told his men that it was the king, and asked if they wished to follow him. They replied with a shout, and the king, placing himself at the head, rode towards the Irish infantry; but as they advanced they were met by a well-directed volley, and, being much more fond of plundering and slaughtering than of close fighting, they turned horse and rode away. Again and again the king rallied his infantry and brought them back to the fight, but the Irish infantry stood their ground with great steadiness, until Hamilton, their general, was wounded and taken in a charge of cavalry. After this, they fell back from Donore upon Duleek in good order, the enemy not wanting to molest them, and the rest of the Irish infantry followed their example. No more singular battle than that of the Boyne was ever fought. In the morning, at break of day, part of James's army, with most of his artillery, were in march for the pass of Slane, and actually on their retreat. The left wing, composed chiefly of French infantry, supposed to be the best troops in the army, never fired a shot. The centre and right, composed entirely of Irish, most of whom had never before been in battle, were alone engaged. With the exception of his Dutch guards, all William's foreign troops had been repeatedly broken; his cavalry had been driven off the field by the Irish horse, while no division of the Irish was broken or suffered a decided defeat, until the infantry from the hill of Donore were compelled to retreat, which they did in perfect order. Throughout the day, the Irish cavalry showed a vast superiority to those of the British, and even broke and destroyed regiments of infantry; and when the whole army fell back they closed up the rear, and effectually prevented any attempt at pursuit. Thus, the battle of the Boyne was fought rather to cover a retreat than defend a position. The loss on either side was estimated at about five hundred, and General Hamilton was the only prisoner taken by the British. The honours of the fight certainly rested with the Irish, who, against a vastly superior force, comprising some of the best troops in Europe, maintained themselves throughout the day, and gained, indeed, in most points, a decided advantage. King James's valour had entirely evaporated before the first shot was fired. Instead of following William's example, and leading his troops in the conflict which was to decide the fate of his crown, and which he himself had precipitated, he took up his position at a safe distance from danger, on the hill of Donore, and as soon as the battle approached that point he rode off to Duleek, where he placed himself at the head of the French troops, and led their retreat. He soon, however, rode on ahead, and arrived in Dublin in a state of consternation and despair, the first fugitive from the field of battle. In the meantime the army was whole and unbroken, marching in perfect order from the field of battle, while its king and commander was doing his best to ruin the cause by spreading dismay and alarm throughout the country. The next morning the king sent for the mayor and corporation of Dublin, and told them that he was under the necessity of taking care of himself, and recommended them to do the same, and to make the best terms they could with the enemy. He then at once mounted and made his flight to Waterford, ordering the bridges to be broken down behind him, although the British army had not yet moved from its position on the Boyne. On reaching Waterford James at once embarked on board the ship he had ordered to be in readiness, and sailed for France. His conduct, and his conduct alone, converted the battle of the Boyne, which was in effect a kind of drawn battle, into a great victory for William. It had, indeed, more than answered the object which the Irish commanders proposed to themselves. Their plan was to accustom the new and badly armed levies to stand firm against the steadiness and experience of William's veteran troops, and then to withdraw without committing themselves to a decisive combat, with a view of protracting the campaign until William should be forced to leave Ireland, and his foreign army should be worn out by winter service in an uncongenial climate. Every day would, they calculated, improve their own army and weaken and reduce that of the enemy. Their position at the Boyne enabled them to try their plan of partial combat to what extent they chose, without danger of being forced into a more extensive action than they deemed expedient. The Irish troops had greatly surpassed the expectation of their own officers, and had filled William's generals with amazement; and it is probable that, if a large part of the infantry and artillery had not been sent off early in the day, the experiment might have been turned into a brilliant victory. As it was, William was so surprised and alarmed at the resistance he had encountered, that he remained some days at the Boyne without advancing. He had been told by all, except the Duke of Schomberg, that the resistance of the Irish would be contemptible, and the most forward of those who had scoffed at the courage of the Irish had been the Enniskilleners, who had themselves, on the day of battle, shown so unmistakably the white feather. After this the king disliked and despised these troops, and hung them without ceremony, when taken in those acts of plunder and slaughter to which they were so much addicted. So far from the flight of King James discouraging the army, it caused universal joy. It was his constant vacillation, interference, and cowardly action which had paralysed his troops; and they felt that, now they were free to act without his interference, they would be able to cope with the invaders. William at once offered favourable terms, if Ireland would submit to his authority; but these were declined, partly owing to the powerful influence of France, partly to the fear that the terms would not be observed, partly to the apprehension of all the gentry, that the lands which they had but just recovered from the hands of Cromwell's settlers would be again taken from them. At the battle of the Boyne, Walter Davenant, with his father's troop, had taken part in all the desperate charges upon the enemy. During the long hours the battle had lasted, the cavalry had been incessantly engaged. Time after time they had charged down upon the Dutch squares, and no sooner had the ranks been reformed, after recoiling from the line of fixed bayonets, than they were called upon to charge in another direction. Walter's heart beat high as they dashed into the midst of the French infantry, or shattered and drove before them the Danish horse; but there was little time to think, and, looking back upon the day when all was over, it seemed to him a chaos of excitement and confusion, of which he could hardly recall even the chief incidents. As the troops halted for the night, they were in no way dispirited at the result of the battle, as the retreat had been begun before a blow was struck. They knew that it was neither intended nor hoped that the ground would be successfully held; and every man felt a pride in the thought that some eighteen thousand newly-raised Irish levies, of whom but a small portion of the infantry were armed with muskets, had sustained, throughout a long summer's day, the attacks of more than double their number of veteran troops, supported by fifty pieces of artillery. The loss of the Irish horse had been comparatively small. Charging a square, in the days when the bayonet was fixed in the muzzle of the gun, was not the desperate undertaking that it now is, when from the hedge of steel issues a rolling and continuous fire. The French regiment, once broken, had been cut down with scarce any resistance, while the mercenary cavalry had been defeated with the greatest ease. Thus, among the brigade of the Irish horse there were but few fallen friends to mourn, and nothing to mar the pride that every man felt, in the behaviour of the Irish troops against such overwhelming odds. That the king had fled, everyone knew, but the feeling was one of relief. "His absence is more than a victory to us," Captain Davenant said, as, with a group of officers, he sat by a fire, made of a fence hastily pulled down. "His majesty has his virtues, and, with good counsellors, would make a worthy monarch; but among his virtues military genius is not conspicuous. I should be glad, myself, if Lauzun and the French would also take their departure, and let us have Mountcashel's division back again from France. If we are left to ourselves, with our own generals, Sarsfield and Mountcashel, we can tire out this continental riffraff that William has gathered together. The dissensions caused by French interference have been our ruin, so far; leave us to ourselves, and we shall do. The Irish today have proved their fighting qualities; and, if proper use is made of the resources and difficulties of the country, I defy them to conquer us. I feel more hopeful now than I have done since the first day we took the field." "Do you think we shall fight another battle before Dublin, father?" Walter asked. "I have no idea what the generals will decide, Walter, but I should imagine that we shall march to the west. We had a strong position today, but in the open field, at present, we could not hope to cope with William's superior numbers and great artillery train. His guns were little use to him yesterday; but on level ground they would tear our ranks to pieces, without our being able to make any return. Among the rivers and bogs and mountains of the west, we should find scores of places which we could hold against them. Besides, in my opinion we should not fight pitched battles, but should harass them with continuous marches and attacks, leaving them masters only of the ground they stand on, until, at last, we completely wear them out and exhaust them." "Then you think we shall abandon Dublin altogether?" "I think so, Walter." "But will they not persecute the Catholics, when they have them in their power?" "There may be some disturbance in the city, Walter, before the English troops march in; but William will, no doubt, put an end to this as soon as he arrives. He cannot wish to drive the Catholics of Ireland to desperation. At any rate, I do not think we need feel at all uneasy about those at home. Lying on the coast to the east of the town of Dublin, and altogether out of the track of the movements of troops, there is little fear of trouble there. In our district there is little preponderance, in numbers, of one religion over the other; and unless the presence of troops, or worse, of those savages from Enniskillen or Derry, excite them, there is little fear of the Protestants of that neighbourhood interfering with our people, especially as they have no grounds for complaint in the past. No, I do not think that you need disquiet yourself, in the slightest, about those at home." As Captain Davenant had thought probable, the Irish army, after marching into Dublin in good order, with flags flying and music playing, left on the following day for the west. They were accompanied by most of the leading Catholic families; and on their departure the corporation at once wrote to William, inviting him to enter the capital. Before his arrival, however, the Protestant mob destroyed a great quantity of property belonging to the Catholics, and carried their excesses to such a point that the town would probably have been destroyed by fire, had not the better classes of Protestants armed themselves, and taken energetic steps to repress the tumult. As the troops marched into Dublin, Walter said to Captain Davenant: "Can I ride over to see how they are at home? They will have heard of the battle. Mother and grandmother must be terribly anxious." "I shall be glad for you to go, Walter, for it would greatly ease their minds at home; but we are to start again, almost immediately, and probably the whole army will have marched off before you get back in the morning. There is no saying what may occur, after we have gone. There may be a general attack upon the Catholics. At any rate, it will be dangerous in the extreme for a single officer, in our uniform, to be riding through the town after we have left. Even in the country villages there must be intense excitement, and anyone in the king's uniform might be fired at, in passing through any of the Protestant settlements." "Well, father, suppose I do not start until it gets dark, then I can get home without attracting notice. There I can put on a suit of my old clothes, and bring my uniform out in my valise." "Well, perhaps you might manage in that way, Walter; and I should be very glad to relieve their minds at home, and to know how they are going on. If you like, you can stop there for a day or two. I don't suppose that William will be here with his troops, for a few days. He has learned that our army is not to be despised, and he may hesitate to advance upon Dublin, until he receives certain news that we have moved away, and that he will not have to fight another battle for the possession of the city. Should you hear that William's troops have arrived in the town, you will of course make a detour, so as to avoid it, on your way to rejoin us; and now I will write a letter, at once, for you to take to your mother." As soon as it was dark, Walter mounted and started for Bray, where he arrived without molestation on the way. His arrival was an immense relief to the ladies, who had been suffering an agony of suspense since the news of the battle had reached them. King James's hurried arrival, and panic flight to Waterford, had caused the most alarming reports as to the battle to circulate throughout the country, and by many it was supposed that his army had been utterly destroyed. Walter's arrival, then, with the news that his father, as well as himself, had passed through the day unhurt, was an immense relief; and they were grateful to learn that, so far from having been routed, the Irish army had accomplished its object, of fighting the battle and then falling back in perfect order and without molestation. "Father says, mother, that he believes next time, when we shall be no longer hampered by the interference of the king, we shall be able to make even a better fight of it, especially if, as we all hope, the French officers will follow the king's example and take themselves off." "How long are you going to stay, Walter?" "I shall stay over tomorrow, mother, and start next morning early. I ought to be able to come up to the army before night, but, if not, I shall overtake them on the march next day." "I wish I was older," Godfrey, who had been listening to the account of the battle, said. "It is so hard to have to stay at home here, while you and father are having such fun!" "You would not think it was fun, if you were with us, Godfrey," Walter said. "I used to think it would be fun, but I don't think so now. Just while the fighting is going on, one is so excited that one doesn't think of the danger, but when it is over, it is awful to see the gaps in the ranks, and to know that so many of those who were riding with you have fallen, and that it may be your turn, next time." "Ah, it's all very well for you to talk, Walter, because you are going through it all, but you would think just the same as I do, if you were in my place." "That is true enough, Godfrey. Anyhow, I am glad you are not old enough. I don't mean that I should not like to have you with us, but then there would be nobody at home with mother. Now, if anything happens to father and me, she has got you, and as you grow up you will be able to look after her, and take care of her. It is bad enough for her having two of us in the war. It would be worse, still, if there were three." As, the next evening, Walter heard that there was news that William's troops had not yet moved from the Boyne, he thought that it was safe to take the direct road through Dublin. He had laid aside his uniform, on reaching home, and in the morning started in his civilian clothes, with the uniform in the valise, strapped behind the saddle. He carried his sword, as usual, for almost all gentlemen at that time rode armed, and this would therefore excite neither comment nor attention. He carried also a brace of pistols, in a belt underneath his coat. On arriving in Dublin, he found the greatest uproar and excitement prevailing. Mobs of men were marching through the streets, smashing the windows of Catholics and sacking the houses. Fortunately, he was warned, before he got into the thick of the tumult, by meeting some women running and crying loudly. He asked what was the matter, and learned that their houses had been sacked, and that any Catholic found in the street was being beaten and ill treated. As Walter was anxious to avoid anything which might arrest his journey westward, he made his way out of the town, as soon as possible, and was heartily glad when he reached the outskirts, and gave rein to his horse. He passed many groups of people as he rode. Some were Protestants, making their way to Dublin to join in the greeting to William and his army, on their arrival. Others were Catholics, afraid to remain in their abodes now that the army had retired west, and journeying to the capital, where they believed that William would prevent disorder and pillage. It needed no inquiry, as to the religion of the respective groups. The Protestants were for the most part men, and these came along shouting and waving their weapons, wild with exultation over the triumph of their cause. The Catholics were of all ages and both sexes. Many of them had carts, and were carrying with them their most valued possessions. All wore an expression of grief and anxiety. As Walter rode into one village, a fray was going on. A party of Protestants, riding boisterously along, had knocked down a woman with a child in her arms, and had answered the angry remonstrance of the peasants with jeers and laughter. Stones had begun to fly. The Protestants had drawn their swords; the villagers had caught up hoes, spades, and other weapons, and a fierce fight was going on. The women, with shrill cries, encouraged the peasants, and aided them by hurling stones at the rioters. Walter saw that his interference would be of no avail, and, with a heavy heart at the bitter hatred which the two parties in Ireland exhibited for each other, he turned from the road, made a circuit round the village, and continued his way. After that, he avoided all towns and villages, and slept at night in the cabin of a peasant, lying some little distance from the road. The following day he again pressed on, and before evening overtook the retiring army. On the arrival of King William with his army in Dublin, a proclamation was issued assuring all, save those who resisted his authority, of his protection, and threatening severity against those who disturbed the peace or committed outrage on personal property. Letters of protection were granted to all who applied for them and, hearing this, Jabez Whitefoot at once went into Dublin, to apply for protection for the family of Captain Davenant. On hearing, however, that no persecution of Catholics would be allowed, and that the army was likely to march west, at once, in pursuit of the Irish, he thought it better to leave the matter alone, as his application would only draw the attention of the authorities to the fact of Captain Davenant and his son being engaged in the hostile army. He felt sure that the ladies need fear no molestation, save from the soldiers or Northerners, as his own influence with the Protestants of his neighbourhood would suffice to prevent these from interfering with the household at the castle. The Irish army marched towards the Shannon, and were concentrated part in the neighbourhood of Athlone, and part at Limerick. William shortly prepared to follow them. He, too, divided his army into two columns. The main body, under his own command, took the road to Limerick; while the other division, consisting of five regiments of cavalry and twelve of infantry, was despatched, under the command of General Douglas, for the purpose of investing the fortress of Athlone. As the armies marched west, their path was marked by wholesale outrage and destruction. Although protections were granted to the peasants and inhabitants of the towns and villages through which the armies marched, they were entirely disregarded by the soldiers, who plundered, ill used, and sometimes murdered the defenceless people, carrying away without payment all provisions on which they could lay their hands. The king sometimes hanged those who were caught in these acts of plunder and slaughter, but this had but little effect. The Dutch soldiers, alone, maintained their order and discipline. The foreign mercenaries, composed for the most part of the sweepings of the great cities, behaved with a brutality and cruelty almost without example, and which was acknowledged by all the historians of the time, Protestant as well as Catholic. Indeed, the Protestant inhabitants suffered even more than the Catholics, for many of the latter fled at the approach of the army, while the Protestants, regarding them as friends and deliverers, remained quietly at home, and suffered every insult and outrage at the hands of this horde of savages, who were perfectly indifferent as to the religion of those they plundered. Captain Davenant's troop was with the force which had retired to Athlone, and there awaited the approach of the column of General Douglas. The reports of the conduct of the enemy, that were brought in by the flying peasants, filled the Irish troops with indignation and rage, and when, on arriving before the town, General Douglas sent a messenger to demand its surrender, Colonel Grace, who commanded, only replied by firing a pistol towards him. Athlone stood on either side of the Shannon. The town on the eastern bank of the river was called "the English town," that on the western "the Irish "--a distinction existing in many of the Irish towns, where the early English settlers found it expedient to live apart from the Irish, for mutual protection against attack. Colonel Grace had retired to the west bank of the river, which was strongly fortified, destroying the English town and breaking down part of the bridge across the river. The garrison consisted of three regiments of foot and nine troops of horse; and when Douglas erected his batteries and opened fire on the castle, they replied briskly, and their guns got the better of those in the batteries. A strong detachment of horse and mounted grenadiers was sent by Douglas to Lanesborough, some miles north of the town, with orders to pass the river at that point, but the post was held by Irish troops, who easily repulsed the attempt. It was next proposed to pass the river at a ford a short distance from the bridge; but the troops had little heart for the enterprise, as the ford was covered by field works erected by the Irish. The assailants were already reduced to considerable straits. They had consumed all provisions found in the town, plundering without mercy the Protestant inhabitants, who had been well treated by the Irish troops, while the conduct of the army effectually deterred the country people from bringing in provisions. The circulation of the report that General Sarsfield, with fifteen thousand men, was on the march to cut off the besiegers of Athlone, determined General Douglas to make a speedy retreat. In his fear of being cut off, he abandoned all his heavy baggage, and, quitting the high road, made his way by unfrequented routes, which added to the hardships of the march. In its retreat, the column was accompanied by the unhappy Protestant inhabitants, who feared to remain behind, lest the Irish should retaliate upon them the sufferings which had been inflicted upon their countrymen. In the meantime, the main English army had done but little. In Dublin, a commission had been appointed to examine into and forfeit the lands of all Catholics, and adherents of King James, and having set this machine at work, the king proceeded with his army southward through Carlow, Kilkenny, and Waterford, all of which places surrendered, the garrisons being allowed to march out, with their arms and baggage, to join their main army on the Shannon. At Waterford, the king received such serious news as to the state of things in England, that he determined to return home. On arriving at Dublin, he was overwhelmed with petitions from the inhabitants, as to the shameful conduct of the troops left in garrison there, especially those of Trelawney's, Schomberg's, and some other regiments of horse, who, the people complained, treated them, although Protestants, far worse than James's Catholic soldiers had done. Inquiry showed these complaints to be well founded, and, finding it impossible to restore order and discipline among them, the king at once sent these regiments back to England. Then, receiving better news from home, he again started to rejoin his army, and marched towards Limerick, being joined on his way by the division under Douglas, which had driven along with them all the cattle and horses of the country through which they had passed. Limerick was, at that time, the second city in Ireland. The country, for a long distance along the mouth of the Shannon, was much wooded, but in the immediate vicinity of the town it was surrounded by thick inclosures, houses, orchards, gardens, and plantations. The cultivated land was everywhere divided into small fields, inclosed by hedges and intersected by lanes. To the east of the town the Shannon divides itself, forming an island on which part of the city is situated. This was called the English town, and was connected by a bridge, called Thomond Bridge, with the Clare side of the river on the north; and on the south, by another bridge, with the Irish town on the county of Limerick side. The Thomond Bridge was defended by a strong fort and some field works on the Clare side, and on the city side by a drawbridge, flanked by towers and the city walls. The bridge was very long and narrow. The position of the English town was, indeed, almost impregnable. It was built upon a rock of considerable extent, and the land outside the walls was low and marshy, and could at any time be flooded. The Shannon was broad and rapid. The Irish town on the Limerick shore was not strong, being defended only by ordinary walls. If this were captured, however, the English town could still hold out. The king made his approaches to the city slowly, being obliged to level the numerous inclosures as he moved on. These were occupied by the Irish infantry, who, lining every hedge, kept up a galling fire, falling back gradually as heavy bodies of troops were brought up against them, until they reached the cover of the guns of the city and fort. Upon these opening fire, William's army halted and encamped before the Irish town. Here, as at the Boyne, the king had a narrow escape, a cannonball from the walls striking the ground at his foot as he was passing through a gap in a hedge. The king had learned that great dissensions existed between the Irish and French, and relied upon this, as much as upon the strength of his arms, to obtain possession of the city. His information was, indeed, correct. King James, in his flight, had left no orders as to who should assume the supreme command. The Duke of Berwick had considerable claims. Lauzun and the French officers declined altogether to receive orders from Tyrconnell, and the Irish officers equally objected to act under the command of a Frenchman. Consequently, during the whole siege, the main Irish army, which, by acting upon William's rear, could speedily have made his position untenable, remained inactive. Monsieur Boileau, a French officer, was governor of the town, but Lauzun, having examined the fortifications, pronounced the place wholly incapable of defence, declaring that the walls could be knocked down with roasted apples, and so ordered the entire French division to march to Galway, and there await an opportunity for embarking for France, leaving the Irish to defend the city if they chose. Lauzun, in fact, was a courtier, not a soldier. He desired to get back to Versailles at any hazard, and had so inspired his officers and men with his own sentiments that there was a general cry among them to be recalled to France. They had, indeed, no interest in the cause in which they fought. They looked with contempt at their half-armed and half-trained allies, and they grumbled continually at the hardships which they had to undergo. It was indeed an evil day, for King James's cause, when he exchanged Mountcashel's fine division for these useless allies, who, throughout the war, not only did no service, but were the cause of endless dissension and disaster. As soon as King William had taken up his position in front of Limerick, he sent a summons to Boileau to surrender. The latter consulted with Tyrconnell, Sarsfield, and some other officers, for, even to the last moment, it was a question whether the place should be defended. At last, however, a decision was made. The reply was addressed to William's secretary, Sir Robert Roultwell, as Boileau could not acknowledge the prince as king, and was too polite to hurt his feelings by a denial of the royal title. He expressed great surprise at the summons he had received, and said that he hoped to merit the good opinion of the Prince of Orange better by a vigorous defence, than by a shameful surrender, of the fortress which had been committed to his charge by his master King James the Second. The king's camp was now formed in regular order; he himself taking his place on its right, having near him the Horse Guards, and the Blue Dutch Guards, who were always his main reliance. To the left of these were the English and Dutch regiments, further on the French and Danes, while the Brandenburghers and other German regiments formed the extreme left of the line. To their great satisfaction, the post assigned to the Danes was one of the rude circular redoubts called, in Ireland, Danish forts, and probably constructed by their own far-off ancestors.	{ "id": "18356" }
9	: Pleasant Quarters.	After the termination of the short siege of Athlone, the troop of Captain Davenant were despatched to join the army near Limerick, and, on their arrival there, were ordered to take up their quarters at the house of a Protestant gentleman named Conyers, four miles from the town on the Limerick side of the river. It was a mansion of considerable size, standing in large grounds, for its proprietor was one of the largest landowners in the county of Limerick, his grandfather having been a colonel in one of Cromwell's regiments. Mr. Conyers himself had gone to Dublin, upon the passing of the act sequestrating the property of all the Protestants by James's parliament, to endeavour to obtain a remission of the decree, so far as it concerned his house and adjoining grounds. As he had influential friends there, he had remained, urging his petition, until the battle of the Boyne and the entry of King William into Dublin entirely changed the position. But he then, owing to the disturbance of the country, and the fact that the Irish army had retired to Limerick, found it impossible to return home. He had, however, travelled with William's army, to which he was able to give much useful information regarding the defences, and details of the country round the town. As Captain Davenant's troop rode up to the house, a lady, with a girl of some sixteen years old, appeared at the door. Both looked very pale, for they feared that the brutal conduct of which they had heard, of William's army, would be followed by reprisals on the part of the Irish. They were somewhat reassured, however, by Captain Davenant's manner as that officer dismounted, raised his hat, and said: "Madam, I have received orders to quarter my troop in the house, but I am anxious, I can assure you, to cause as little inconvenience and annoyance as possible, under the circumstances." "We are only women here, sir," Mrs. Conyers said. "The house is at your disposal. I myself and my daughter will move to the gardener's cottage, and I trust that you will give orders to your men that we shall be free from molestation there." "I could not think of disturbing you in that manner," Captain Davenant said. "I myself have a wife and mother alone at home, and will gladly treat you with the same courtesy which I trust they will receive. Allow me, in the first place, to introduce to you my lieutenant, Mr. O'Moore, and my cornet, who is also my son, Walter. I see that you have extensive stables and outbuildings. I am sure that my men, who are all good fellows, and many of them the sons of farmers, will make themselves very comfortable in these. I myself, and my two officers, will quarter ourselves in the gardener's cottage you speak of." "You are good, indeed, sir," Mrs. Conyers said gratefully; "but I could not think of allowing you to do that, and shall indeed be pleased, if you and your officers will take up your residence here as my guests." "I thank you kindly; but that I could not do. My men will be well content with the outhouses, if they see that we are content with the cottage; but they might not be so, if they saw that we took up our quarters in the house. Therefore, if you will allow me, I will carry out my own plan; but I need not say that we shall be very pleased to visit you in the house, at such times as may be agreeable to you." After expressing their grateful thanks, Mrs. Conyers and her daughter withdrew into the house. Captain Davenant then addressed a few words to his men. "The house will not hold you all, lads, and there are only ladies here, and I am sure you would not wish to disturb and annoy them by crowding their house. Therefore, I have arranged that you shall take up your quarters in the outhouses, and that we shall occupy a little cottage on the grounds. I hope, lads, that, for the honour of the country and the cause, all will behave as peacefully and quietly as if in our own homes. It would be a poor excuse that, because William's soldiers are behaving like wild beasts, we should forget the respect due to lonely women." A fortnight was spent here pleasantly for all. The first alarm past, Mrs. Conyers felt safer than she had done for months. Ever since the troubles had began, she had felt the loneliness of her position as a Protestant, and she would have, long before, made her way with her daughter to Dublin, had it not been that she thought that, so long as she continued in the house, it might be respected by the Catholic peasantry, while, were she to desert it, it would probably be plundered, perhaps burned to the ground. Still, the position was a very trying one, especially since the Jacobite army began to gather in force round Limerick. She now felt that her troubles were comparatively over. The troops caused no annoyance, and she heard but little of them, while she found in Captain Davenant and his officers pleasant guests. The troops, on their part, were well satisfied. Mrs. Conyers gave instructions that they were to be supplied with all they needed, and their rations of bread and meat were supplemented with many little comforts and luxuries from the house. While Mrs. Conyers entertained the two elder officers, Walter naturally fell to the share of her daughter, and the two soon became great friends, wandering in the grounds, and sometimes riding together when Walter was not engaged with the troop. The news came daily of the movements of William's army, and when it approached, Captain Davenant's troop went far out to observe its movements, and obtain an accurate idea of its strength. It was late in the evening when they returned, and Captain Davenant said at supper: "This is our last meal with you, Mrs. Conyers. We leave at daybreak, and a few hours afterwards William's army will arrive before Limerick. We shall be the losers, but you will be the gainer if, as you suppose, Mr. Conyers is with them." "I shall be really sorry for your going, Captain Davenant. It seemed a terrible thing having a troop of hostile horse quartered upon one; but in reality it has been a pleasant operation, rather than not, and I have felt safer than I have done for months. I do hope that when these troubles are over we shall renew our acquaintance, and that you will give my husband an opportunity of thanking you for the kindness with which you have treated us." "The thanks should be on my side," Captain Davenant said. "You have made what promised to be an unpleasant duty a most pleasant one. Our stay here has been like a visit at a friend's, and I regret deeply that it has to come to an end, a regret which I am sure Lieutenant O'Moore and my son share." "We do, indeed," the lieutenant said. Walter and Claire Conyers said nothing. They had talked it over early that morning before the troop started, and Walter had expressed his deep regret that their pleasant time was at an end; and, although the girl had said little, she was far less bright and happy than might have been expected, considering that upon the following day she should probably see her father. Captain Davenant's troop rode off at daybreak, kept down the Shannon to Limerick, and, crossing the bridge, entered the city, and received orders there to take up their quarters in a village some four miles up the river. Thus, they were less than a mile distant from Mrs. Conyers' house, although separated from it by the Shannon; and from an eminence near the village, the roof and chimneys of the mansion could be seen rising above the trees by which it was surrounded. During the day, the sound of the firing before Limerick could be plainly heard; but little attention was paid to it, for it was certain that no attack could be made in earnest upon the town, until the battering artillery came up, and there was but little hope that the cavalry would be called up for any active service at present. After dinner, Walter strolled out to the eminence, and looked across towards the house where he had spent so happy a time, and wondered whether Mr. Conyers had by this time arrived, and whether, in the pleasure of his coming, all thought of the late visitors had been forgotten. Presently Larry sauntered up, and took a seat on a wall a few paces away. Larry was a general favourite in the troop. He did not ride in its ranks, but accompanied it in the capacity of special servant of Walter, and as general attendant to the three officers. "We had a good time of it, yer honour," he said presently. Walter turned round sharply, for he had not heard him approach. "We had, Larry," he said, with a smile. "We shall find it rougher work now." "We shall, yer honour. "I was thinking to myself," he said, confidentially, "that if you might be wanting to send a bit of a letter, it's meself could easily make a boat, with some osiers and the skin of that bullock we had given us for the rations of the troops today." "Send a letter, Larry! Who should I be sending a letter to?" "Sure yer honour knows better than me. I thought maybe you would be liking to let the young lady know how we're getting on now, and to find out whether her father has come home, and how things are going. Yer honour will excuse me, but it just seemed natural that you should be wishing to send a line; and a sweeter young lady never trod the sod." Walter could not help laughing at the gleam of quiet humour in Larry's face. "I don't know, lad. You have pretty well guessed my thoughts; but it can't be. The opposite bank will be swarming with William's men--it would be a most dangerous business. No, it's not to be thought of." "Very well, yer honour, it's just as you like; but you have only got to hand me a bit of paper, and give me a wink of your eye, and I will do it. As to William's sodgers, it's little I fear them; and if all one hears of their doings be true, and I had a pretty young creature a mile away from me, with those blackguards round about her, it's anxious I should be for a line from her hand;" and Larry got down from his seat, and began to walk away towards the village. Walter stood silent for a moment. "Wait, Larry," he said. Larry turned, with a look of surprise upon his face. "Come here," Walter said impatiently. "Of course I am anxious--though I don't know how you could have guessed it." "Sure yer honour," Larry said with an innocent look, "when a gentleman like yourself is for ever walking and riding with a purty colleen, it don't need much guessing to suppose that you would be worrying after her, with such creatures as the Northerners and the furreners in her neighbourhood." "And you seriously think you could take a letter across to her, Larry?" "Sure and I could, yer honour. The nights are dark, and I could get across the river widout a sowl being the wiser, and make my way to the stables, and give it to one of the boys, who will put it in the hands of Bridget, Miss Claire's own maid; and I could go back, next night, for the answer." "But if you can do it, I can," Walter said. "What would be the good, yer honour? It's only the outside of the house you would see, and not the young lady. Besides, there's a lot more risk in your doing it than there is with me. You are an officer of the king's, and if you were caught on that side of the river, it's mighty little trial they'd give you before they run you up to the bough of a tree, or put a bullet into you. With me, it's different. I am just a country boy going to see my cousin Pat Ryan, who works in the stables at the house. Pat would give me a character, no fear." "Well, I will think of it," Walter said. "And I will get the boat ready at once, your honour. A few sticks and a green hide will make a boat fit for Dublin Bay, to say nothing of crossing a smooth bit of water like this." After Larry had left him, Walter walked up and down for some time. He had certainly thought, vaguely, that he should like Claire Conyers to know that he was still within sight of her house; but the possibility of sending her word had not occurred to him, until his follower suggested it. Larry's suggestion of possible danger to her made him uneasy. Even if her father was with the king, and had already returned home, he would frequently be absent in the camp, and who could tell but some band of plunderers might visit the house in his absence! The Protestants had been plundered and ill-used by William's men round Athlone, and might be here. It would certainly be well to know what was going on across the water. After the kindness they had received, surely it would be only civil to let the Conyers know where they were posted. At any rate, Claire could not be offended at his writing; besides, he might arrange some plan by which he might get news from Larry's friend, Pat Ryan. As he went down to the village he heard roars of laughter, and, passing a cottage, saw Larry with five or six of the troopers round him. Larry was seated on the ground, making a framework in the shape of a saucer four feet in diameter. "And what are you wanting a boat for, Larry?" "Sure, I am mighty fond of fishing," Larry said. "Didn't you know that?" "I know you are a fisherman at home, Larry; but if it's fishing you want, there are two large boats hauled up on the bank." "They are too big," Larry said. "I should want half a dozen men to launch them, and then you would want to go with me, and the bare sight of you would be enough to frighten away all the fish in the Shannon. But I will have a look at the boats. The captain might want a party to cross the river, and it's as well to see that they are in good order, and have got the oars and thole pins handy. I will see to them myself, for there are not half a dozen of ye know one end of the boat from the other." When Walter reached his quarters, he at once sat down to write. After many attempts he finished one as follows: "Dear Miss Conyers: "After the kindness shown to us by Mrs. Conyers and yourself, I feel sure that you will like to know where we are posted. We are at Ballygan, just across the Shannon opposite to your house, and I can see your roof from a spot fifty yards from the village. It seems a pleasure to me to be so close, even though we are as much divided as if there were the sea between us. "I hope that Mr. Conyers has returned, and that you will have no trouble with William's troops, whose reputation for good behaviour is not of the best. I hope that, now that you are among your friends, you have not quite forgotten us, and that you will let me have a line to say how you are, and how things are going on with you. My boy Larry is going to take this across, and will call tomorrow night for an answer, if you are good enough to send one." "When will your boat be finished, Larry?" he asked his follower, as the latter came in, just as it was getting dusk. "She will be finished tomorrow. The framework is done, and I could make a shift, if your honour wished, just to fasten the skin on so that it would take me tonight." "If you could, I would rather, Larry." "All right, your honour!" Larry said, with a slight smile. "Two hours' work will do it." "I know where you are making it, Larry, and will come round when I go to inspect sentries, at eleven o'clock. We shall post ten men, a quarter of a mile apart, on the bank, and I will give orders for them to look out for you. The word will be 'Wicklow;' so when you come across they will shout to you, 'Who comes there?' You say, 'Wicklow;' and it will be all right." At the hour he had named, Walter went round for Larry, who was working by the light of a torch stuck in the ground. "I have just finished it, yer honour; but I was obliged to stop till the boys got quiet; they were so mighty inquisitive as to what I was in such a hurry about, that I had to leave it alone for a while." "Look here, Larry, here is the letter, but that's not the principal reason why I am sending you across. You will give it to Pat Ryan, as you suggested, to pass on through Bridget to Miss Conyers; but I want you to arrange with him that he shall, tomorrow, get some dry sticks put together on the bank opposite, with some straw, so that he can make a blaze in a minute. Then do you arrange with him that, if any parties of William's troops come to the house in the absence of Mr. Conyers, and there should seem likely to be trouble, he is to run as hard as he can down to the river. If it is day, he is to wave a white cloth on a stick. If it is night, he is to light the fire. Tell him to arrange with Bridget to run at once to him and tell him, if there is trouble in the house, for, as he is in the stables, he may not know what is going on inside. "I have been looking at those boats. They will carry fifteen men each at a pinch; and if the signal is made, we shall not be long in getting across. Pat would only have about half a mile to run. We will get the boats down close to the water's edge, and it won't take us many minutes to get across. Anyhow, in twenty minutes from the time he starts, we might be there." "That will be a moighty good plan, yer honour. Now, if you will go down to the water with me, I will be off at once. I sha'n't be away half an hour; and I can slip up into the loft where Pat sleeps, and not a sowl be the wiser, if there was a regiment of William's troops about the house." "All right, Larry! I shall wait here for you till you get back." Larry raised the light craft and put it on his head. He had made a couple of light paddles, by nailing two pieces of wood on to mop sticks. Walter accompanied him to the water's edge, and told the sentry there that Larry was crossing the river on business, and would return in half an hour's time, and that he was not to challenge loudly when he saw him returning. The night was dark, and Walter soon lost sight of the little boat. Then he waited anxiously. He had, however, but little fear that the enemy would have posted sentries so far down the river, especially as he would only just have pitched his camp opposite Limerick. It was three-quarters of an hour before he heard a faint splash in the water. The sentry heard it, too. "Shall I challenge, sir?" "No. Wait for a minute. We shall soon see whether it is Larry. Should there be anyone on the opposite bank, he might hear the challenge, and they would keep a sharp lookout in future." The sound came nearer and nearer. "Who goes there?" Walter said in a quiet voice. " 'Wicklow!' and it's mighty glad I am to hear your voice, for it's so dark I began to think I had lost myself entirely." "Is all well, Larry?" Walter asked, as the light boat touched the bank. "All is well, your honour," Larry said, stepping ashore, and lifting the light boat on to his head. "You had better stow it away close here, Larry, till the morning. It's so dark that you will be sure to pitch over something, if you go further. "Now, tell me all about it," he went on, as Larry stowed away the boat among some bushes. "There is little enough to tell, yer honour. I just rowed across and landed, and made straight for the house. Everything was quiet and still. I went round to the stables, and up into the loft where Pat sleeps. " 'Are you there, Pat Ryan,' says I? " 'Who is it calls Pat Ryan?' says he. " 'It's myself, Larry, Mr. Davenant's boy.' " 'Why, I thought you had gone,' says he. 'Are you sure it's yourself?' says he. " 'And who else should it be, Pat Ryan? Don't yer know my voice?' "By this time I had got into the corner where he slept, and touched him. " 'I am glad to feel you, Larry,' says he, 'for I wasn't sure that you hadn't fallen in with the troopers, and it wasn't your ghost that come to visit me.' " 'Whist,' says I, 'I have no time to waste upon ye. The master and the troops are stationed just across the river, at Ballygan. Mr. Davenant has given me a letter for Miss Conyers, telling her all about it. I don't exactly know what he said, and maybe she would like it given privately, so do you hand it to Bridget in the morning, and ask her to give it to her mistress, and to hand over to you any answer there may be. I will come across for it tomorrow night. But that's not all, Pat. You know the devil's work that William's men have been carrying on, on the march.' " 'Av course, everyone has heard the tales of the villains' doings, Larry.' " 'Well, the young master is mighty anxious about it, as you may guess. Has Mr. Conyers come?' " 'Yes. He rode in at four this afternoon.' " 'Well, Mr. Davenant says you will all be safe as long as he's here, but maybe that at some time, when he's away, you may have a troop of these villains of the world ride in here, and little they care whether it's Protestants or Catholics that they plunder. So, if they come here and begin their devilries, you run for your life down to the river, opposite Ballygan, with a white cloth or a shirt, if it's daytime, and wave it. You are to have a pile of sticks and straw ready, and, if it's night, ye will just set it in a blaze, and there will be help over before many minutes. You stop there till they come, to tell them how strong the enemy are. " 'The master says you are to tell Bridget about it, so that, if they misbehave themselves inside the house, she can slip out and let you know. You understand that?' " 'I do,' says he; 'and its a comfort to me, for it's fretting I have been over what might happen, if a troop of those murderin' villains were to come here, and not a sowl save me and the other boys to take the part of the mistress and Miss Claire.' " 'Well, you know now, Pat, what's to be done, and see you do it; and now I must go, for the master is waiting for me. I will be with you tomorrow night for the answer.' "And so I came back, and I lost ten minutes looking about for the boat, for it was so mighty dark that I could not see a fut. I kicked against it and very near fell over it. It's well I didn't, for I should have knocked it into smithereens, entirely!" "Capital, Larry! you couldn't have done better. Now I shall feel comfortable." After breakfast, Walter told his father of the mission on which he had sent Larry, and the arrangement he had made with Pat Ryan. "You ought to have told me at first, Walter. I do not blame you, but you should not do things on your own responsibility." "But so far, father, it has not been a regimental affair. I simply sent my own boy with a note to Miss Conyers, just to say where we were; but, as it may be an affair in which some of the troop may have to act, I have told you about it, so that you can make what arrangements you like." "It's rather a fine distinction, Walter," his father said, smiling. "It seems to me that you have engaged us to send a detachment across the river, in case of trouble at Mrs. Conyers'. However, I heartily agree with you that our kind friends should be protected from injury and insult. "How many will the boats hold?" "Thirteen or fourteen men each." "Very well, then. I authorize you, at any time, if I am away with a portion of the troop, to take twenty-five men across if the signal is made. If I am here I shall, of course, go over myself. You can take any measures of preparation you may think necessary." Walter availed himself of the permission, and at once gave orders to the sentry posted on the river, in front of the village, that if a white flag was waved by day, or a fire lit by night on the opposite bank, he was to shout loudly and fire his pistol, and that these orders were to be passed on to the sentry who succeeded him at the post. Then he picked out twenty-five men, and told them that, at any time in the night or day, if they heard a shot fired by the sentry they were to seize their arms, rush down to the boats, launch them and take their places, and wait for orders. He told them to sleep without removing any of their clothes, so as to be ready for instant action. The next night, Larry again crossed and brought back a little note from Claire Conyers, thanking Walter for letting her know they were so close, telling him of her father's return, and saying that there was no fear of her mother or herself forgetting their late visitors. It was a prettily written little note, and Walter was delighted at receiving it. "Well, my boy," Captain Davenant said with a little smile, when Walter told him next morning that he had heard from Miss Conyers, "as you seem specially interested in this affair, I will let you have the honour and glory of being the first to come to the rescue of Miss Conyers and her mother, if they should need it; and therefore, whether I am here or not, I give you permission to cross at once, in the two boats, if you get the signal. But on reaching the other side you are to send the two boats back at once, with two men in each, and I will bring the rest of the troop across as fast as possible. There is no saying what force you may find there. I shall leave it to your discretion to attack at once, or to wait until I come up with reinforcements. You will, of course, be guided partly by the strength of the enemy, partly by the urgency for instant interference for the protection of the ladies." Four days passed quietly. There was but little for the cavalry to do. Small parties were posted at various spots, for some miles down the river, to give notice should the enemy appear on the opposite bank and show any intention of making a crossing; and, beyond furnishing these guards, the troop had little to do. Walter spent much of his time watching the opposite bank. He hardly knew whether he wished the signal to be displayed or not--he certainly desired no trouble to befall the ladies; but, on the other hand, the thought of rushing to their rescue was undoubtedly a pleasant one. Larry spent much of his time at the water's edge, fishing--a pursuit in which many of the troopers joined; and they were able to augment the daily rations by a good supply of salmon. On the fifth day, the officers had just finished supper, when the sound of a pistol shot was heard. Walter leaped from his seat, snatched up his sword and pistols, and ran down to the river. The men were already clustering round the boats. A minute later these were in the water, and the men jumped on board. They too were eager for the work, for Larry had whispered among them that, if the signal was made, it would signify that a band of the enemy's marauders were at Mrs. Conyers'; and all had been so kindly treated there that they were eager to repay the treatment they had received. Besides, there was not a man in the Irish army whose heart had not been fired at the recitals of the brutality of the enemy, and filled with deep longings for vengeance upon the perpetrators of the deeds. Walter counted the men as they rowed across, and was pleased to find that not one of them was missing. He ordered the two men who were at the oars in each boat to return, the instant the rest had landed, to fetch another detachment across. As they reached the land, the men sprang out. Pat Ryan was standing at the landing place. "Well, Pat, what is it?" "A troop of Hessian horse, your honour. Half an hour ago they rode up to the doors. Mrs. Conyers came out to meet them, and told them that she was a loyal Protestant, and wife of a gentleman high in the king's councils, who was in the camp. The blackguards only laughed. The officers, with some of the men, dismounted and pushed their way past her into the house, and the rest of the troop tied their horses up to the trees on the lawn, and shouted to me, and some of the other boys who were looking on, to bring forage. I suppose we weren't quick enough for them, for one of them drew his pistol and fired at me. Fortunately, he only hit the truss of straw I was carrying. Then I went round to the back door, where I had agreed that Bridget was to come to me, if things were going wrong in the house. A few minutes afterwards she came out, with a white face, and said: 'For the sake of the Holy Virgin, run for your life, Pat, and warn the soldiers!' So I slipped away and ran my hardest." All this was told as the party were running at full speed towards the house. "How strong was the troop?" Walter asked. "About eighty men, yer honour." "We must trust to a surprise," Walter said. "We can get round to the back of the house without being seen. If we burst in there suddenly, we can clear the house and hold it till my father comes up with the whole troop." Five minutes after they had left the boat, the party approached the house. Walter halted his men for a moment in the shrubbery behind it. "Steady, lads, and take breath. You will follow me into the house, and keep together. Give no quarter to the scoundrels." Scarcely had he spoken than a piercing scream, accompanied by a pistol shot, was heard within. "Come on, lads!" Walter exclaimed, as he rushed at full speed at the door, the men following close at his heels. The door was open. In the passage lay one of the maidservants, shot through the head by one of the Hessian troopers, who still held the pistol in his hand. Walter's pistol cracked before the man had time to draw his sword, and he fell dead. Then he rushed on into the hall, in which were a score of troopers, gathered round a barrel of wine which had just been broached. In an instant, the Irish were upon them. Many were cut down or shot, before they had time to stand on the defensive. The rest were slain after a short and desperate fight. "Bar the front door!" Walter shouted. "Sergeant Mullins, take six men and hold it against those outside. The rest follow me." Short as the fight had been, it had given time to the rest of the Hessians, scattered about the house in the act of plundering, to gather on the stair, headed by their officers. Without a moment's hesitation Walter dashed at them. In point of numbers the party were well matched; but the fury of the Irishmen more than counterbalanced the advantage of position on the part of the Hessians. For five minutes a desperate fight raged. Those in front grappled each other, and fought with clubbed pistols and shortened swords. Those behind struck a blow as they could with sword or musket. But the Hessians, ignorant of the strength of the force which had suddenly thus attacked them, thought more of securing their safety than of defending the stairs, so several of those behind slipped away and jumped from the windows to the ground. Their desertion disheartened those in front, and, with a shout, Walter and his troopers bore back the Hessians on to the landing, and the latter then broke and fled. Most of them were overtaken and cut down at once. Two or three only gained the windows and leaped out. The instant resistance had ceased, Walter rushed into the drawing room, bidding the men run down and hold the lower windows. Mrs. Conyers lay in a dead faint on the sofa. Claire, with a face as pale as death, was standing beside her. "Walter!" she gasped out; "then we are safe!" She tottered, and would have fallen, had not Walter rushed forward in time to catch her, and place her in a chair: "Don't faint, my dear Claire," he said urgently. "There is your mother to be looked after, and I must run downstairs, for they are attacking the house." "I won't faint," Claire said, laughing and crying in a manner which frightened Walter more than her fainting would have done. "I shall be better directly, but it seems almost like a miracle. Oh, those dreadful men!" "They have all gone now, Claire. We hold the house, and have cleared them out. Pray, calm yourself and attend to your mother. I must go. Don't be frightened at the firing. My father will be here in a few minutes, with aid." "Oh! I am not frightened, now," Claire said; "and oh! Walter, you are bleeding dreadfully." "Never mind that now," Walter said; "I will see to it, when it is all over." Then, leaving her to look after Mrs. Conyers, he ran downstairs. His right arm was disabled, he having received a sweeping blow on the shoulder from one of the Hessians, as he won his way on to the landing; but he had no time to think of this now, for his men were hardly pressed. For a moment, a panic had reigned among the troopers outside, at the outburst of firing, and at the sight of their comrades leaping panic-stricken from the windows; but inquiry soon showed them that they were still greatly superior in numbers to the party who had obtained possession of the hall; and, furious at the loss of all their officers, and of many of their comrades, they attacked on all sides, and tried to force their way in at the doors and lower windows, in spite of the vigorous resistance from within. Walter hurried from point to point, cheering on his men by assurance that help was at hand, and seeing that no point had been left undefended.	{ "id": "18356" }
10	: A Cavalry Raid.	Staunchly as Walter's troopers maintained the defence, they were sorely pressed, for the enemy still outnumbered them by three to one. Several times the Hessians almost forced their way in, at one or other of the windows, but each time Walter, who kept four men with him as a reserve, rushed to the assistance of the defenders of the windows and drove them back; but this could not last. The defenders were hard pressed at several points, and Walter, feeling sure that his father would be up in a very few minutes, called the men off from their posts and stationed them on the staircase. With shouts of triumph, the Hessians burst in. The hall was filled with a crowd of furious soldiers, who hurled themselves like a wave at the defenders of the staircase. All the pistols had long since been emptied, and they fought sword to sword. Walter had detached five of his little party to hold the top of the other staircase, should the assailants try to force a passage there; and he had but ten men now, and several of these severely wounded, to hold the staircase. Great as the advantage that the position gave the defenders, they were forced up step by step, and Walter began to fear that he would be driven to the landing before succour came, when a crowd of figures suddenly burst in at the hall door, and above the cracking of pistols, which at once arose, he heard his father's voice: "Down with the murdering dogs! No quarter!" Taken wholly by surprise, ignorant of the force by which they were attacked, and taken between two bodies of enemies, the Hessians turned to fly. Walter and his men at once pressed down upon them, while the newcomers fell upon them with fury. There was but little resistance, for the Hessians thought only of flight. Some burst through their assailants and gained the door; more fled down the passages, and escaped by the windows through which they had entered; but more than thirty of them fell in the hall. The instant resistance was over, Captain Davenant ran out with his men to secure the horses. A few of the Hessians, who had escaped from the front door, had jumped on the backs of the nearest animals and ridden off. The rest had fled on foot, and the exulting troopers counted seventy-two horses remaining in their hands. Captain Davenant at once returned to the house. "Where are you, Walter?" he shouted; but there was no answer. Getting more light, Captain Davenant searched hastily among the numerous bodies scattered in the hall, and soon came upon Walter, who was lying, insensible, just at the foot of the stairs. The excitement had supported him so long as the defence had to be continued; but, as soon as succour appeared, and the assailants retreated, he had stumbled forward with his men, and had fallen insensible from loss of blood at the foot of the stairs. Captain Davenant hastily examined him. "Thank God," he said to Larry, who had smuggled himself over with the second detachment, "he has no other wound but this on the shoulder, and has only fainted from loss of blood! Run upstairs, and snatch a sheet from one of the beds. We will soon make some bandages." Larry did as he was ordered. Slips were torn off the sheets, and, after cutting Walter's coat and shirt from his shoulder, Captain Davenant bound and bandaged up the wound. In the meantime, Larry had got some spirits from the buffet in the dining room, and a spoonful or two were poured down Walter's throat, and in a few minutes he opened his eyes. For a moment he looked confused, then he smiled at his father. "You were just in time," he said. "We couldn't have held out much longer." "Yes, we were just in time, thank God!" his father said; "but where are the ladies?" "In the drawing room. Mrs. Conyers has fainted." Captain Davenant ran upstairs. Claire had succeeded in restoring her mother, who had just sat up when Captain Davenant entered. "My daughter tells me that you have rescued us, you and your son," she said faintly. "How can I thank you enough?" "Never mind that now, my dear lady," Captain Davenant said hastily. "Just at present, we have no time to lose. The fellows who have escaped will carry the news to William's camp, and in half an hour we shall have a regiment of cavalry here. I must retreat at once, and carry my wounded with me. What will you do? Will you stay here, or will you and your daughter come with us?" "Oh, I will go with you, please. If I was sure my husband would come with them, I would not fear; but he may not hear of it, and there is no saying what they might do." "How is Walter, Captain Davenant?" Claire--who had been waiting impatiently for her mother to finish--burst in. "He was wounded, and there was such terrible fighting afterwards, and he has not come back with you." "He fainted from loss of blood," Captain Davenant said; "but I do not think his wounds are serious. "Mrs. Conyers, I can only give you five minutes. Take with you any jewels or valuables you prize most. If they should arrive without your husband, they will be sure to sack and burn the house." Captain Davenant now hurried downstairs. The wounded had already been collected. There were but four so seriously wounded as to be unable to walk. Six had been killed. The wounded, including Walter, lay on blankets. Men took each a corner, and at once started to the spot where the boats had been left. Captain Davenant told four men to wait at the foot of the stairs, while he went up to the drawing room. Mrs. Conyers and her daughter were already prepared. Each had thrown a shawl over her head, and had in their hands the dressing cases containing Mrs. Conyers's jewellery. "Now, madam," Captain Davenant said, "if you will point out your plate chest, I have four men below in readiness to carry it to the boat. It is no use leaving that to be divided between the marauders." Mrs. Conyers pointed out two chests, in one of which deeds and other valuable documents were kept, and in the other the plate, of which Mrs. Conyers had a considerable quantity. Two men seized each of them. "Now, Mrs. Conyers, please accompany them as quick as you can to the river. We will follow and cover the retreat. I think we have a few minutes yet, before cavalry can arrive from the camp." When Captain Davenant and the rearguard reached the bank, they found that the boats had already returned, after taking over the wounded and a portion of the detachment. The rest, with the two ladies and the female servants, at once took their places, and were taken across before any sound betokened the arrival of the enemy at the Hall. "I sincerely hope, Mrs. Conyers," Captain Davenant said, as they landed, "that Mr. Conyers may accompany the first body of troops who arrive, for if not, I fear they will set fire to the Hall. They must have lost considerably over fifty men, and in their rage at finding no one on whom to wreak their vengeance, they will make no inquiry as to whom the house belongs. Indeed, they will find no one there to ask. The servants of the house had already fled, and I sent my boy's servant, Larry, round to the stables to tell the men there to ride away with the horses. They will accompany fifteen of my men, who mounted as many of the horses we captured, and are driving the rest to a ford some miles away. They are a valuable capture, and altogether, as far as we are concerned, we have made a good night's work of it." "But I do not understand now," Mrs. Conyers said, "how it was that you came across just in time. How did you know that we were in such trouble? Because I am sure you would not have come across to attack the soldiers in our house, without some special reason?" "No, indeed, madam, I certainly should not have made your house a battlefield. The fact is, our fortunate arrival is due entirely to my son. He made all the arrangements, without my knowing anything about it. He sent over his boy to one of your lads in the stable, and arranged that, if there should be any trouble in the house in the absence of Mr. Conyers, he should run down and signal across the river. Your daughter's maid was to let the boy know what was going on within. It was not till he had the whole business in train, that Walter told me anything about it. As it was his plan and not mine, and I could see he was extremely anxious about it, I left the matter in his hands, and authorized him to lead the first party across whenever the signal was made, night or day. Our boats would only carry twenty-five men, and four of these had to return with them. As Walter would have but a quarter of our force with him, I ordered him, in case the signal was made and he crossed, not to attack until I joined him, unless the necessity seemed very urgent. I suppose he considered it was so, for he would hardly have fallen upon some eighty or ninety troopers, unless he had deemed it most urgent." "Thank God he did so!" Mrs. Conyers said, "for we owe him our lives, and more. I cannot tell you all now. It is too horrible to think of. But I shall never forget the thankfulness and joy I felt, when suddenly I heard the noise of shouts and firing, and the men who were trying to tear my child from my arms suddenly desisted and, rushing out of the room, left us alone. I fainted then, and knew nothing more till I heard, in a confused way, the sound of shouting and conflict, and Claire was bending over me, telling me that your son was holding the stairs against the Germans, and that he was expecting help to arrive every moment. "Where is he? I long to see him, and give him my thanks and blessing." "He is in that cottage yonder, which is at present our quarters," Captain Davenant said. "I told them to send off a trooper to Limerick, for a doctor, as soon as they got across." "But you assured me his wound was not dangerous," Mrs. Conyers said anxiously. "No, I am sure it is not. It is a severe wound, but not likely to have serious consequences. But I fear that some of the men are in a far worse condition." "I shall install myself as head nurse," Mrs. Conyers said, decidedly. "We owe so much to you all, that that is the least I can do." "Very well, Mrs. Conyers. Then I appoint you head of the hospital. I will have the four seriously wounded men moved into the cottage next to mine. You will be able to obtain plenty of assistance among the women of the village. O'Moore and I will move into other quarters, and leave the cottage to you and your daughter. Your servants can have the cottage on the other side." They had now reached the door. "I will just go in and see him first," Captain Davenant said. Larry was sitting by Walter's couch. "Well, Walter, how are you feeling?" "Oh, I am all right now," Walter said, "since Larry brought me word that the boats have brought everyone across safely. I was anxious before, you know." "How does your shoulder feel?" "It throbs a bit, father; but that is no odds." "Mrs. Conyers is coming in to see you. She is going to establish herself here, and O'Moore and I are moving out. She is going, for the present, to be head nurse." "That will be nice," Walter said; "but I sha'n't want much nursing." "I don't know, Walter. A downright cut with a heavy cavalry sword is not a light matter, even when it falls on the shoulder instead of the head. But you had better not talk much now, but, when you have seen Mrs. Conyers, try and get off to sleep. "Larry, do you see to moving our things out, at once." So saying, Captain Davenant left the room, and a minute later Mrs. Conyers came in. She took the left hand that Walter held out to her. "God bless you, my boy!" she said, softly. "I shall never forget what Claire and I owe to you. All my life I shall be your grateful debtor, and some day I hope that my husband will be able to thank you for what you did for us. "And now," she went on, in a lighter tone, "I am going to be your nurse, and my first order is that you lie quite quiet, and try to get to sleep. I will make you some barley water, and put it by your bedside. That is all I can do for you, till the surgeon comes to examine your wound. Claire wanted to come in to thank you herself, but the child has gone through enough for one night, so I have sent her straight to bed. I do not want her on my hands, too." A few minutes later Larry, having established the two officers in another cottage, returned and took his place by Walter's bedside, while Mrs. Conyers went out to see to the comfort of the other wounded. Half an hour later, a surgeon arrived from Limerick. Two of the cases were pronounced at once to be hopeless, the other two he thought might recover. Walter's wound he said was a severe one, but in no way dangerous. The sword had probably glanced off something as it descended, so that the edge had not fallen straight on the shoulder bone. It had, however, nearly taken off the arm. Had it fallen truly, it would probably have been fatal. After he had attended to the more serious cases, he dressed the wounds of the other men, several of which were quite as severe as that of Walter, although they had not incapacitated the men from making their way down to the boats. Captain Davenant had kept a watch towards the Hall. And as, in an hour after they had crossed, no sheet of flame was seen arising thence, he was able to tell Mrs. Conyers that he thought that it was safe, and that either Mr. Conyers himself must have accompanied the troops, who would by this time have unquestionably arrived there, or that some officer, aware that the owner of the house was a friend, and with sufficient authority over the men to prevent its destruction, must be in command. In the morning, he had a long talk with her. He suggested that she and her daughter should accompany him into Limerick, and be sent, with a flag of truce, across the bridge to join her husband in William's camp. This, however, she positively declined to accede to. "In the first place," she said, "I consider that it is my duty to nurse the men who suffered for our sake. In the next place, after what we went through last night, I refuse absolutely to place myself and my daughter in the hands of the ruffians who disgrace the cause of William. Hitherto, as a Protestant, I have been an adherent of that cause, as has my husband. Henceforth, I am an Irishwoman, and as such abhor a cause which can employ such instruments, and inflict such atrocities upon Ireland. I will write a letter to my husband, telling him exactly what has happened, and how we have been preserved, and say that nothing will induce me to trust myself and Claire among William's troops, but that I shall remain on this side of the Shannon. If, as I trust will not be the case, the English force their way across the river, I shall make for Galway, and thence take ship to England, where we can join him. I intend to remain here as long as I can be useful as a nurse, and I shall then retire, with Claire, to Galway, where I have some relations, with whom I can stay until matters are decided." Mrs. Conyers at once wrote the letter, which Captain Davenant carried himself into Limerick, as he was going in to report the occurrences of the preceding night. The governor immediately sent the letter across, with a flag of truce. General Sarsfield, who was in command of the cavalry, expressed himself highly pleased with the result of the raid across the Shannon, and appointed three officers to raise another troop of horse with the captured animals, which had arrived before morning at Ballygan, and to place themselves under Captain Davenant's command. "Your son must be a lad after your own heart," he said to Captain Davenant. "It was indeed a most gallant action, thus, with twenty-five dismounted men only, to attack a strong troop of Hessians. I hope that, as soon as he is well enough to mount a horse again, you will introduce him to me. Keep your troop in readiness for a move, for I mean to beat them up before long." "Can't I see Walter today, mamma?" Claire asked, after Captain Davenant had ridden off. "It seems so unkind, my being in the house with him, and not going in to tell him how sorry I am that he was wounded." "Not today, Claire. He is very flushed and feverish this morning, and I must not have him excited at all." "But I would not excite him, mother. I would only go in and speak to him quietly." "Even that would excite him, my dear. I will tell him that you want to come in and see him; but that I think you had better not do so, for a day or two." But even without the excitement of Claire's presence, Walter became more feverish, and by evening was talking wildly. The excitement and anxiety he had gone through were as much responsible for this as the wound, and by midnight he knew no one. The surgeon, who came over in the evening, ordered cloths constantly soaked with fresh water to be placed round his head, and that he should be given, whenever he desired it, barley water sharpened by apples boiled in it. Mrs. Conyers and Larry sat, one on each side of his couch, and once or twice, when he was lying quiet, Claire was allowed to steal in and look at him; but at other times Mrs. Conyers kept her out of the room, for, in his feverish talk, Walter was constantly mentioning her name, and telling her he would come to her. Mrs. Conyers was troubled and perplexed in her mind. Regarding Claire as a child, and Walter as a lad of eighteen, the thought that any serious consequence would arise from their intercourse at the Hall had not occurred to her; but now she could not doubt that, on Walter's part, at least, a serious attachment for her daughter had sprung up, and Claire's face and manner told her a similar story. She was but sixteen, but, having been her mother's companion and friend, she was older than many girls of the same age. Mrs. Conyers would rather that it had not been so, for she foresaw much sorrow for Claire. She had thought that her daughter, as a wealthy heiress, would some day make a good match, and Walter, whose fortune, in any case, would be but a small one--for she knew that his father's estates had passed from the family--was a soldier on the side she believed would be the losing one. Still, she felt that he had earned a right to Claire, and resolved that, come what would, if it turned out that Claire's affections were really given to the lad, she should have her support and championship with her father. For two days the fever continued, and then the care of his watchers prevailed, and Walter sank into a quiet sleep, from which he awoke sensible and refreshed. An answer had been received from Mr. Conyers, on the same afternoon that his wife's letter was sent to him. He had been in council with the king, when an officer came in with the news that some Hessians had ridden in, saying that the troop to which they belonged had ridden out to a large house, two miles beyond the spot at which the regiment was quartered, and had there been attacked by a body of Irish troops, who had killed all their officers, and three-quarters of the troop. "Knowing where the regiment was quartered, it at once struck me that the house might be our own, and, on the trooper being brought in, I found that it was so, and obtained permission from the king to accompany the regiment of Danish horse, who were at once sent out. The king gave stringent orders to the officer in command that the house was to be respected, and a guard was to be placed there to protect it from marauders. You can imagine my anxiety, as I rode out, and how it was increased when I found the place absolutely deserted. From the trooper whom we took with us, we learned something of what had taken place. He had been in the garden, but the officers and nearly half the troopers were in the house. Suddenly, the sounds of a conflict were heard within. Then many of his comrades jumped from the windows, and, as they reported the number of the assailants was not large, an attack was made upon the house. After considerable loss, an entrance was effected, and they were gradually overcoming the defenders, when they were attacked in the rear by a fresh body of the enemy, and only a few of them managed to make their escape. "The appearance of the house fully corroborated his story. The inside was piled with dead, who were found scattered all over the house. Among them were a few men in the uniform of one of the Irish cavalry regiments. This was some alleviation to my terrible anxiety. Had the assailants been a body of peasants, I should have feared that they had wreaked on you and Claire the hatred which they feel, I own not unjustly, towards the king's foreign troops. As they were regular soldiers, I had hopes that they had only carried you off as hostages. "One of the female servants was found below, killed. No pursuit was possible, as we could find no one of whom to inquire by which way the enemy retreated; but, in the morning, we found that the horses of the Hessians had been ridden to a spot some miles up the river, where they had swam or forded the stream. There was a strong party of the enemy on the opposite side. My anxiety was terrible, till I received your letter, and you may imagine how great a shock it was to me to learn the frightful scene through which you had passed, and how my sentiments changed towards those whom I had regarded as your abductors, but whom I now learn were your saviours. "I have read that portion of your letter to the king, who is furious at the evil conduct of his troops. He has, all along, done everything in his power to repress it; but when not under his immediate eye, it seems as if all discipline was lost, and the troops behaved rather as a horde of savages than as soldiers. After what had happened, I cannot blame you for the opinion you express in your letter, or for your determination not to trust yourself and Claire in this camp, although I am sure that the king would send a detachment of his own Dutch guards with you to Dublin. I trust that you will, as soon as the work you have undertaken is over, go to our cousins at Galway, and take ship without delay to England, where I will at once join you, when I hear of your arrival there. "Please express to Captain Davenant and his son the extreme obligation under which I feel towards them, and assure them that I look forward to the time when this unfortunate struggle shall be at an end, and I can meet them and thank them personally. It will be a satisfaction to you to be able to inform them that I have, this morning, obtained from the king a peremptory order on the commission in Dublin, to stay all proceedings in the matter of Captain Davenant's estate near Bray, which was on the list of confiscated properties. I am forwarding this by one of the royal messengers, who leaves with despatches today, and, when I visit Dublin, I shall do myself the pleasure of calling on Mrs. Davenant, and of setting her mind at ease." While Walter had been at his worst, his father had been away for only a few hours. After his interview with Sarsfield in Limerick, a messenger arrived from that general, ordering Captain Davenant to bring his troop into the city at once. It was four in the afternoon when he arrived, and he at once went to General Sarsfield's quarters. "Let the men dismount, Captain Davenant, and let them and the horses feed. We have a long ride before us tonight. I have just heard that William's siege artillery is coming up, under a weak escort, and I mean to get round in the Dutchman's rear and destroy it. He shall find that Limerick is not to be taken as easily as he expects. "He has had a disagreeable sample of our quality today. A deserter brought in news of the exact position of his tent, and our artillery have been giving him such a peppering that, from the church tower, we see that he has been obliged to move his camp." As soon as it was night, four hundred cavalry were in the saddle. Sarsfield placed himself at their head, and rode twelve miles up the Shannon to Killaloe. Crossing the river there, he made a wide sweep with his cavalry, until he was in the heart of the Tipperary mountains, in rear of William's camp. Quietly as the expedition had been carried out, it was impossible that so large a body of horse should ride through the country unperceived, and a gentleman of county Clare, named O'Brian, thinking that he would gain honour and advantage by reporting their passage to William, set out for the British camp. Being unknown there, he was a long time before he could get access to the king. The officers to whom he spoke paid little attention to his story about a body of Irish horse passing through the country, and were much more interested in gaining information from him as to the state of the stock of cattle, sheep, and pigs in his part of the county; for, owing to the terror excited by the conduct of William's soldiers, the people for many miles round had driven off their stock and left the villages, and provisions were already becoming scarce in the camp. At length, however, one of those to whom he had spoken mentioned his story to the king, who at once sent for him, and saw the importance of the news he brought. O'Brian himself had no idea of the object of Sarsfield's expedition, but the king instantly guessed that it was the siege train. He therefore ordered a large body of cavalry to be immediately despatched to meet the artillery on its way, and protect it into camp. All day, Sarsfield remained in concealment among the mountains, until, towards evening, the train came in sight, moving slowly with its escort of two troops of dragoons along the high road. He watched it until it halted, and encamped for the night, in a field beside the highway. He waited until the horses were picketed, and the men engaged in making their encampment for the night. Then the Irish cavalry burst down from the glen in which they had been hiding. The officer in command sounded to horse, but it was too late; before the men were in the saddle, the Irish were upon them, and in a moment the two troops of dragoons were dispersed or killed. Sarsfield's men at once set to, to collect the powder waggons, pontoons, and baggage of every description. The great guns were filled with powder to the muzzle, and then buried two-thirds of their length in the earth. The whole mass of siege equipage was piled above them, and a train of gunpowder was laid to the store in the centre. The men then drew off to a distance. A match was applied to the train, and the whole blew up with a tremendous explosion. The shock was heard in the faraway camp of William, and he knew that his cavalry had arrived too late to avert the catastrophe he feared. They had, indeed, just arrived within sight of the spot when the explosion took place. They rode on at full speed, only to find the vast pile of ruined woodwork blazing furiously. The Irish cavalry was seen in the distance, leisurely retiring; but, although the English pursued for a short time, the Irish easily evaded them in the darkness among the hills. The whole of William's cavalry in camp were sent out, when the explosion was felt, to endeavour to cut off the Irish horse; but Sarsfield was well acquainted with the ground, and retired with his troops safely across the Shannon, having struck a terrible blow against the designs of William. The king, however, found that, in spite of the measures Sarsfield had taken, two of the guns remained uninjured by the explosion. These were brought to the camp, and another heavy gun was fetched from Waterford, together with a small quantity of ammunition. The regiments were at once set to manufacture fascines for the siege, and this work proceeded quickly, the orchards and plantations furnishing an abundance of wood. The fascines were used for filling up ditches, and the advances against the town were pushed forward with vigour. But the besiegers were not allowed to carry on their work unmolested, for a constant fire was kept up by the guns on the walls, and the besieged made several sorties, driving back the working parties, destroying their work, and retiring before any considerable bodies of troops could be brought up to attack them. The three heavy guns were, however, brought into position at a short distance from the wall, and began to play upon it. The dissensions between the Irish commanders still continued, and, beyond Sarsfield's raid against the battering train, nothing was done to annoy the enemy in the rear, although, had any vigour been shown, the Irish army lying idle west of the Shannon could have moved across, and speedily starved out William's army by cutting off all supplies. Even as it was, provisions could only be collected by sending out strong bodies of troops to plunder the country; for the peasantry had been goaded into fury by the evil conduct of the troops, and were now in a state of insurrection, cutting off and murdering all stragglers, and driving in small parties. William had good reason to regret that he had brought with him so small a contingent of British troops, owing to his doubts whether they could be depended upon, and his poor opinion of their bravery; for, since the days of Agincourt, English troops had been seldom seen on the Continent, and were consequently held but in small esteem there. He had with him now a regiment of English grenadiers, and a few line regiments, but the bulk of the army was composed of his Dutch troops and foreign mercenaries. The latter had shown, at the battle of the Boyne, that their courage was not of a high order, while their excesses had not only produced a bitter feeling of hatred against them throughout the country, but had done immense harm to the cause, by rendering it next to impossible to obtain provisions. Walter's progress towards recovery, from the day when he recovered consciousness, was very rapid. The fever, though severe, had been short, and he gained strength almost as rapidly as he had lost it. The morning after he had come to himself, Mrs. Conyers brought Claire in to see him. "Here is a young lady who is very anxious to see how you are getting on, Walter," she said cheerfully; "and, now you are going on so well, I shall hand you over a good deal to her care, as some of the others want my attention badly. You must not talk much, you know, else we shall be having you getting feverish again." So saying, she left the room. Claire had stopped timidly near the door. The change which four days had made in Walter's appearance shocked her, and she scarcely recognized, in the pale drawn face, the youth who had burst in, sword in hand, to her rescue on that terrible evening. The tears were running fast down her cheeks, as she approached the couch. "Why, what is the matter, Claire?" he asked. "You must not cry. I am all right again now, and in a week shall be on horseback, I hope." "Oh, Walter, what can I say?" she said. "To think that you should have suffered so, for us!" "There is nothing dreadful about it," he said, smiling. "A soldier must expect to get wounded, sometimes, and a slash from a German sword is not a serious matter. I am only too glad that I got it in your cause, Claire--only too glad that I was able to be of service to you--and your mother," he added in afterthought. "It makes me very happy, to think I have been useful to you, only I would rather that you didn't say anything more about it. I am quite content and happy, as it is, and, if it had been my life, I would have gladly given it." "I won't say any more, if you don't wish it," Claire said quietly, "but I shall think of it, always. "And now," she said, with an effort, "mamma said you were not to talk much, and you look quite flushed already, so you must lie quiet, and I will read to you, or work, if you like that better." "I don't care which it is," Walter said, "so that I can look at you;" and this time Claire's cheeks were a good deal redder than Walter's. Mrs. Conyers returned in half an hour, and found Claire sitting working, while Walter lay looking at her. "I think, Claire, you had better take your work in the next room again," she said. "Walter looks flushed, and I don't think your visit has done him any good. You have been talking too much." "It has done me an immense deal of good, Mrs. Conyers," Walter protested; while Claire exclaimed that they had hardly spoken a word, which indeed was the truth, for Walter had been feeling too dreamily happy to want to talk, and Claire had felt so shy and embarrassed, with Walter watching her, that she had been unable to hit on a single subject for remark. Another two days, and Walter was well enough to get up and lie on a couch of heather, covered with the blanket, which Larry had prepared for him in the next room. His voice had recovered its natural ring, and Claire had got over her unaccustomed shyness; and Mrs. Conyers, as she moved in and out, heard them laughing and chatting together, as they had done ten days before at the Hall.	{ "id": "18356" }
11	: The First Siege Of Limerick.	The three heavy guns thundered against the walls without intermission, night and day, until at length a breach was made. The garrison in vain attempted to repair it, and every hour it grew larger, until there was a yawning gap, twelve yards wide. This William considered sufficient for the purpose, and made his preparations for the assault. The English regiment of grenadiers, six hundred strong, was ordered to take its place in the advanced trenches, and to lead the assault. It was supported on the right by the Dutch Guards, with some British and Brandenburg regiments in reserve. On the left, the grenadiers were supported by the Danish regiments, and a large body of cavalry were held in readiness, to pour in behind the infantry. The storming parties were under command of Lieutenant General Douglas. At three o'clock in the afternoon, the signal for the assault was given by a discharge of three pieces of cannon. As the last gun was fired, the grenadiers leaped from the trenches and dashed forward towards the breach. As they approached the wall, they discharged their muskets at the enemy upon the walls, and, before assaulting the breach, they hurled a shower of hand grenades at its defenders. The preparations for the assault had been observed by the Irish, and they were in readiness to receive it. The news had spread through the town, and the excitement among the whole population was intense. The guns on the walls ceased firing, in order that all might be ready to pour in their shower of balls, when the assault commenced. The fire from the batteries of the besiegers had also died away, and a silence, which seemed strange after the constant din of the preceding days, hung over the camp and city. No sooner had the grenadiers leaped from the trenches, than the guns on the walls, and the musketry of the defenders, poured their fire upon them; while all the batteries of the besiegers opened, at the same moment, to cover the assault. Through the hail of fire the grenadiers kept on without faltering, and, as they neared the breach, the Irish rushed out through the opening to meet them. There was a desperate struggle, half hidden from the eyes of those on the walls by the cloud of smoke and dust, which arose from the combatants; but the grenadiers, fighting with the greatest gallantry, won their way to the counter-scarp, and half the regiment forced its way through the breach and entered the town. But the Irish troops, clustered behind the wall, then closed in again, and barred the breach to those following. The Dutch and English regiments were marched up, to aid the rest of the grenadiers to cut their way in after their comrades; but these troops were unable to imitate the valour of the grenadiers. They got as far as the counter-scarp; but the fire from the walls was so deadly, that they could not be prevailed upon to advance. The rain of fire mowed them down. Their officers urged them on, and, unwilling to retreat and incapable of advancing, they were shot down in scores. Presently there was a sudden movement among the Irish defenders on the breach, and a few of the grenadiers who had entered the city burst their way through them, and rejoined their comrades. No sooner had they entered the city, than they found themselves assailed on all sides. The Irish troops and the citizens attacked them with fury, and even the women, animated by the deadly hate which the deeds of William's soldiers had excited, hurled missiles upon them from the windows, and even joined in the attacks upon them in the streets. The grenadiers resisted obstinately, but they were gradually overpowered by numbers, until at last a few survivors, gathering together, burst through their assailants, and succeeded in making their retreat. For nearly three hours this furious conflict had raged within the city. Regiment after regiment had been marched up to the assault, but none had proved brave enough to fight their way up the counter-scarp to the aid of the hard-pressed grenadiers in the town. When the little remnant of the grenadiers rejoined them, they continued, for a time, to keep up a constant fire upon the defenders on the walls, but at last slowly and sullenly fell back to their camp. In the meantime, a regiment of Brandenburghers had attacked the wall of the battery known as the Black Battery, whose fire was doing great execution upon the assailants. They had brought scaling ladders with them, and with these they succeeded, fighting with great bravery and determination, in gaining the walls. The whole regiment poured in; but, just as they did so, the Irish fired the powder magazine that supplied the battery, and the whole battalion was destroyed. William, from his position on a fort known as Cromwell's Fort, watched the struggle. Had he acted as Cromwell did, at the siege of Drogheda, when, after his troops had been twice repulsed at the breach, he placed himself at their head and led them to the assault, the result might not have been the same; for the regiments, which refused to follow their officers up the counter-scarp, might have followed the king; but William, although he had often proved the possession of no ordinary courage, and coolness in danger, had not that species of courage which prompts a man to throw himself forward to lead a forlorn hope. Moreover, both as a general-in-chief and king, his place was not at the head of an assault. The assailants lost more than two thousand men, and these the flower of William's army. The surprise of the troops, at their defeat by an enemy they had been taught to despise, was extreme, and so ashamed were they of their failure, that the following day they were ready to renew the assault. The king, however, would not risk another such defeat. The bravest of his force had perished, his stores of ammunition were nearly exhausted, and the rains had set in with great violence. On the day following the assault, the king called a council of war, and it was resolved to raise the siege. There was a great scarcity of waggons and horses, in consequence of the loss sustained by Sarsfield's attack on the train. The few waggons which remained were not enough to convey the wounded men, many of whom were obliged to walk. The stores had, therefore, to be abandoned for want of transport. Some were thrown into the river, others blown up and destroyed, and, on Saturday the 30th of August, the army commenced its retreat. It was accompanied by a great host of fugitives, for with the army went the whole of the Protestant inhabitants of the county of Limerick and the surrounding country, with their wives, children, servants, and such household goods as they could bring with them. In addition to these were the Protestant fugitives from the neighbourhood of Athlone, who had come down with the division of General Douglas, after he had raised the siege of that city. The Protestants round Limerick had not doubted the success of the besiegers, never questioning the ability of an army, commanded by a king, to capture a place like Limerick. The misery of this body of fugitives was terrible. They had abandoned their homes to pillage and destruction, and knew not whether they should ever be able to return to them again. They had, on the arrival of William, torn up the letters of protection, which the Irish generals had given to all who applied to them, and, having thrown in their fortunes with him, dared not remain among the country people, who had suffered so terribly from the exactions and brutality of William's army. Not only had they to endure wet, hunger, and fatigue in the retreat, but they were robbed and plundered, by the army which should have protected them, as if they had been enemies instead of friends. William himself left his army, as soon as he broke up the siege, and pushed straight on to Waterford, and the troops, relieved from the only authority they feared, and rendered furious by the ill success which had attended their operations, broke out into acts of plunder and insubordination which surpassed anything that they had before perpetrated. The siege of Limerick brought the campaign to a close, and, so far, the Irish had no reason to be disheartened. They had besieged and nearly annihilated the army of Schomberg at Dundalk. They had fought a sturdy battle on the Boyne, and had proved themselves a match for William's best troops. They had decisively repulsed the attacks upon Athlone and Limerick. Half the troops William had sent to conquer the country had fallen, while their own losses had been comparatively small. The sole fruit, of all the efforts of William, had been the occupation of the capital--a great advantage, as it gave him a point at which he could pour fresh troops into Ireland, and recommence the war in the spring with new chances of success. When the British army reached Callan, some of the arrears of pay were distributed among the troops, and the army was then broken up, and the troops went into winter quarters. William had returned at once to England, and sent over some new lords justices to Dublin. These were received with delight by the townspeople, who had suffered terribly from the exactions and depredations of the foreign troops quartered there, and were, indeed, almost in a state of starvation, for the country people were afraid to bring in provisions for sale, as they were either plundered of the goods as they approached the city, or robbed of their money as they returned after disposing of them. As the only possible check to these disorders, the justices raised a body of militia in the town, to cope with the soldiery, and the result was a series of frays which kept the city in a state of alarm. By the time that Limerick beat off the assault upon its breach, Walter Davenant was quite convalescent. Rumours of the ill treatment of the Protestants who accompanied the retreating army circulated in Limerick, and Mrs. Conyers congratulated herself warmly that she and her daughter were safe under the protection of the Irish troops, instead of being in the sad column of fugitives. As soon as the English army had left, Captain Davenant obtained for her an order of protection from General Sarsfield, and she returned for a while with her daughter to their house, to which the invalids were carried, Captain Davenant's troop being again quartered around it. "I hardly know what is best to do," she said to Captain Davenant, a few days after her return. "I am, of course, anxious to rejoin my husband, but at the same time, I feel that my staying here is of benefit to him. With the order of protection I have received, I am perfectly safe here, and I have no fear whatever of any trouble, either with the troops or peasantry; but, on the other hand, if we abandon this place, I fear that it will be pillaged, and perhaps burned, like the other houses belonging to Protestants which have been deserted by their owners. What do you say, Captain Davenant?" "I should be sorry to give any advice, Mrs. Conyers. For the troops I can answer. The protection you have received from General Sarsfield will be sufficient to ensure you against any trouble whatever from them, but, as to the peasantry, I cannot say. Every village within reach of William's army, in its advance or retreat, has been destroyed, and the vilest atrocities have been committed upon the people. The greater part of the men have, in despair, taken up arms, and, when they get the chance, will avenge their wrongs upon inoffensive Protestants who have ventured to remain in their dwellings. Savagery has begot savagery, and even such a protection order as you have received would go for little with these half-maddened wretches. I should say, therefore, that so long as there are a considerable body of troops at Limerick, so long you may safely remain here, but no longer." "At any rate, I will stay for a time," Mrs. Conyers said. "The winter may bring peace; and I am very loath to abandon the house, to which my husband is greatly attached, if it is possible to save it." The party now fell back to the mode of life which had been interrupted by the advance of William's army. Captain Davenant drilled his men, and spent his evenings pleasantly in the house. Walter had so far recovered that he was able to stroll through the grounds, or drive with Claire. The troopers enjoyed their rest and abundance of rations. Captain Davenant's mind had been set at ease by the receipt of a letter, which Mrs. Davenant had sent him by one of the men of the village. It told him that she had seen Mr. Conyers, who had obtained a stay of all proceedings against the property, and that she was well, and in as good spirits as she could be in his absence. A month after they had moved across the river, their quiet life was interrupted by a trooper riding up, just as the party was sitting down to dinner, with an order from General Sarsfield for the troops to be in readiness to march, at daybreak, to form part of a force which was about to undertake an enterprise against the English stationed at Birr. There was silence at the table, after Captain Davenant had read the order. "Then you must leave us?" Mrs. Conyers said at last. "I am afraid so, Mrs. Conyers. Yes, sorry as I am that our pleasant time here must come to an end, there is no questioning the order. I have been, in fact, expecting it for the last day or two." "Then I shall move," Mrs. Conyers said, decidedly. "It will take us a day or two to pack up such valuables as I should like to take away and leave at Limerick, till the return of happier days. When that is accomplished, I shall carry out my intention of making for Galway, and leave the house to take care of itself." "In the meantime, madam," Captain Davenant said, "I will leave my son and four of the men, who are now convalescent, as a protection. I fancy they are all fit to take the saddle, but I can strain a point a little, and leave them still on the sick list." "Thank you very much, indeed," Mrs. Conyers said, while a glance of satisfaction passed between Walter and Claire. "That will be a satisfaction. Indeed, I shall feel quite safe, so long as your son is here. I wish now I had moved the things before; but I had hoped that you would have been allowed to remain in quarters here all the winter. Had it not been for that, I should never have decided as I did." The next morning the troop started. "The place seems strangely quiet," Walter said, as he strolled out into the garden with Claire, after breakfast. "It seems terrible to think that, in three or four days, it will be deserted altogether, and that you will have gone." "It is horrid," the girl said, with tears gathering in her eyes. "I hate King William and King James both," she went on petulantly. "Why can't they fight their quarrel out alone, instead of troubling everyone else? I don't know which of them I hate the most." "But there is a compensation," Walter said with a smile. "I am sure I don't see any compensation," the girl said. "What do you mean, Walter?" "I mean," Walter said, "that if they had not quarrelled, we might never have met." "There is something in that," Claire said softly. "No; I don't know that I ought quite to hate them, after all." By which it will be seen that Walter Davenant and Claire Conyers had already arrived at a thorough understanding, as to their feelings towards each other. After this, as was natural between young persons so situated, their talk wandered away into the future, and the present was already forgotten. In the house, everyone was at work. Mrs. Conyers' servants had all returned, when she came back to the house, and these were now busy, with the assistance of Larry and the four troopers left behind, in taking down and packing pictures, taking up carpets, and getting furniture ready for removal. In the afternoon, Walter assisted in the work of packing. As he was dressing for dinner, Larry, as usual, came into his room. "I suppose, your honour," he said, after putting out Walter's clothes, "you will be setting a watch tonight?" "Yes, Larry, I was intending to do so. You don't think there is any special occasion for it, do you?" "I don't know, your honour. We hear tales of the rapparees burning every Protestant house in the district. As long as the troop was here, av coorse the boys kept away; but there is a powerful lot of plunder in the house, and the news that the troop have gone will go through the country quick enough. The boys have had enough to turn them into devils, with what they have gone through, and small blame to them if they take their chances when they find them. We know, yer honour, that Mrs. Conyers and Miss Claire are well-nigh angels, and there is small fear that the people around will lift a finger agin them, in spite of having had their own homes burnt over their heads; but folks from a distance don't know that, and the news that there is a rich Protestant house, all ready for sacking, will travel quick. I hope your honour will get the ladies to move out of the place tomorrow, whether the ould pictures and things are all ready or not." "Do you think it is as serious as that, Larry?" "Faith and I do, yer honour. You don't know how bitter the folks are!" "But there cannot be any danger, Larry, as long as we are here. The rapparees would never attack a house which has the general's protection, and with an officer and some troopers of the king to guard it." "It's meself would not answer for them," Larry said, shaking his head. "The boys are just disperate, and would care nothing for the protection, unless there were force to back it. They think that, as all the Catholics have been robbed by the Protestants, it's only fair that they should get their turn now; and, if I were your honour, I would lay all my plans out tonight, how to get away and the rest of it, just as if you were assured they would come before the morning." "Why, you have heard nothing certain, Larry?" "I have not, or I would tell your honour at once; but I know what the people think and feel, and I know that the rapparees have been plundering and destroying every Protestant house around, and they will guess that the ladies will be moving, now that the troop is gone. Besides, won't they have heard that the news has gone round, for waggons to come to take away the things?" The earnestness with which Larry spoke convinced Walter that the danger was serious. Larry was not given to magnify danger, and usually treated all risks with carelessness and indifference. Walter knew that he would gather, from the stablemen and the people who brought in provisions, much more as to the state of popular feeling in the country than he was likely to know, and he accordingly went down to dinner grave and preoccupied. Mrs. Conyers soon noticed the change in his manner, and, as soon as the servants had retired, asked him if he had received any bad news. "No," he said, trying to speak lightly. "My boy Larry has been trying to scare me about the rapparees, and, although I do not think that there is any danger to be apprehended from them, I do think that it would be just as well to hurry on your preparations, as much as possible, and for you and Claire to go in to Limerick tomorrow afternoon. We can finish the packing up of the goods you wish to take, and any we cannot get off tomorrow can be sent in the next day." Mrs. Conyers looked grave. "But we have heard of no rapparees in this neighbourhood, Walter," she said. "We have heard of sad excesses in some parts of the country, but nothing in this neighbourhood." "There has been small temptation for them about here," Walter said, "for every house within miles was stripped by the Williamites. Catholic or Protestant was all the same to them. Besides, they knew well that Sarsfield's horse would soon have put a stop to that sort of thing. Now, I do not wish to alarm you in the slightest, and I do not think that there is any real cause for anxiety. Even if they are in the neighbourhood, the rapparees will hardly venture an attack upon a house occupied by even a few of our troops. Still, it is always wisest to be prepared, and therefore, I should like for us to arrange exactly what had best be done in the event of an attack. Of course, I shall see that all the doors and the lower windows are securely fastened, and I shall have the men from the stables into the house, so we shall be nine or ten men in all; enough, I hope, for all circumstances. Still, merely as a matter of discussion, let us suppose the worst. Let us imagine the house surrounded, the doors burst in, and the resistance on the point of being overpowered. What would be our best plan for making our escape? "Do not be frightened, Claire," he went on, seeing how pale the girl had become. "Every general, when he is going to fight a battle, however sure he may be of success, decides upon the route by which his army shall retreat, in case of a defeat, and I am only taking the same precaution." "If there is to be a retreat made at all," Mrs. Conyers said, "I prefer that it should be made now. Do you really think that there is any real danger of attack?" "I think that there is danger of attack, Mrs. Conyers; but I have no reason for supposing that there is any particular danger this night." "Then Claire and I will at once start for the town, under the escort of two of your men. It would be folly, indeed, to run the risk of another attack here. If the house is to be burned, it must be burned. For, if they were beaten off once, they would come again when the house was undefended. As for the things, should all be quiet tonight, they can be sent in tomorrow as arranged. The things that are to go are all got together." "I do think that the best way," Walter said. "Of course, I shall ride in with you, and hand you over to the friends you are going to, in the town, and shall then come back here again with a light heart. But I own that I am nervous at the thought of you and Claire being here, should the rapparees attack the house." "But mind, Walter, there is to be no fighting. If they come tonight, I had rather that they took everything, than that you should risk your life in its defence. The silver and valuables we took across before are all safe in Limerick. As for the other things, they can go. Now, mind, we shall not leave unless we have your promise that, if a band of these men come tonight to sack the place, you and your men will offer no resistance." "If they come in numbers which render successful resistance out of the question, I promise you that we will not draw a trigger, Mrs. Conyers." "In that case I am satisfied, Walter. Against you and your men these peasants have no quarrel." Walter at once called Larry. "Larry, get my horse saddled, and tell Browning to saddle his. Place two pillions behind the saddles. Mrs. Conyers and her daughter are going to ride into Limerick at once." "The Lord be praised!" Larry said piously. "That's the best news I have heard this many a day." "And, Larry," Mrs. Conyers said, "tell the three boys in the stable to saddle the three best horses, and ride with us. If we lose everything else, we may as well retain them, for it would not be easy to buy others now." In ten minutes, all was ready for a start. Walter and the trooper took their places in the saddles, chairs were brought out, and Mrs. Conyers and Claire mounted behind them. Walter had asked Mrs. Conyers to take her seat on the pillion on his horse, but she did not answer, and when Walter turned to see that she was comfortably placed behind him, he found that it was Claire who was seated there. "Mamma told me to," the girl said. "I suppose she thought this was, perhaps, the last ride we should take together." "For the present, Claire--you should say, for the present. I hope it will not be long before we are together again. "And for good," he added, in a low voice. Mrs. Conyers made no comment, when they dismounted and entered the house of a friend at Limerick, upon Claire's swollen eyes and flushed cheeks, but said "goodbye" lightly to Walter, thanked him for his escort, and said that she hoped to see him, with her household goods, on the following afternoon. On leaving them, Walter went straight to the house where an officer of his acquaintance was quartered. "Hullo, Davenant! I didn't expect to see you here at this time of the evening. I heard you were still laid up with your wound." "That is an old affair now," Walter said. "I am not quite strong again, but there is little the matter now. I have come in to ask you if you will let me have five-and-twenty of your men. I have strong reason to believe that it is likely one of the bands of rapparees will make an attack on Mrs. Conyers' house tonight. The tenants have been asked to send in their waggons, tomorrow, to remove some of the furniture in here, and I think it probable they will try to take what they fancy, before it starts. I have brought Mrs. Conyers and her daughter into the town, but, as I have only four men, I cannot defend the house if it is attacked in any force. I wish you would let me have five-and-twenty men, and a sergeant, just for tonight. I will march them in with the baggage in the afternoon." "Certainly I will," Captain Donovan said. "I need not disturb the colonel, at this time of the evening, but will take it on myself. There are just that number quartered in the storehouse, close to the gate. I will go down with you, at once, and turn them out and give them orders. It will be a good thing for the rapparees to have a lesson. They bring disgrace upon our cause by their doings." In a few minutes the men, who had not retired to bed, were turned out. "You have got a four-mile march before you, boys," Walter said, when they were drawn up; "but there will be a pint of good wine, and some supper for you, when you get there. So step out as briskly as you can." After a cordial goodnight to Captain Donovan, Walter placed himself at the head of the infantry, and, in little over an hour, arrived at the house. He knocked loudly at the door. A minute later, Larry put his head out of the window above. "Who is there? What do you want knocking at a peaceful house at this time of night? You had best go away, boys, for the house is chock full of soldiers. We are only waiting for orders to blow you to smithereens." Walter burst into a laugh. "Very well done, Larry. It is I, with some soldiers. So you needn't give orders to the men to fire." Larry gave a cry of satisfaction, and ran down to open the door. "It's glad I am to see you, Master Walter, entirely. I have been listening ever since you went, and, when I heard the tramp of feet, I made sure it was the boys." "But I gave orders that there was to be no resistance, Larry." "And I wasn't going to resist, your honour; but I thought I might just frighten them away." "Now, Larry, get up a pint of wine for each of these good fellows, and what victuals you can find in the house. We need have no fear of an attack tonight." When the soldiers had finished their supper, they lay down in the hall. Walter placed a sentry at a window, at each side of the house, and he then lay down on a sofa, for the ride to Limerick and back had greatly fatigued him, much to his surprise, for he had no idea how far his strength had been pulled down. He was aroused, just as day was breaking, by a loud knocking at the door, and at the same moment a shot was fired from a window above. The soldiers had started to their feet, and seized their arms as he ran out and bade them follow him upstairs. He threw up a window. "Who are you? And what do you want?" "Never mind who we are," a voice replied. "We want the door opened, and you had best do it quick." "Look here, my man," Walter said in a loud, steady voice, "there are thirty soldiers in this house, and, if I give the word, you will get such a volley among you, that half of you will never go home to tell about it, so I warn you to depart quietly." "It's a lie," the man said. "If you are the officer, you have got only four men, and you know it. We want to do you no harm, and we don't want to harm the ladies; but what's in the house is ours--that's the law of William's troops, and we mean to act up to it." A chorus of approbation rose from a throng of peasants gathered round the door. A few of them carried muskets, but the greater part were armed with rude pikes. "Show yourselves at the windows, boys," Walter said to his men. "Level your muskets, but don't fire until I give the word." It was light enough for those without to make out the threatening figures, which showed themselves at every window, and, with a cry of alarm, they ran back among the shrubs for shelter. "Now you see," Walter said, "that I have spoken the truth. I have thirty soldiers here, and you know as well as I do what will come of it, if you attempt to break into this house. "For shame, men! Your deeds bring disgrace on the king's cause, and on our religion. It is not because the scum who march with the Dutchman behave like brutal savages, that we should do the same. There's plenty of work for you, in fighting against the enemies of your country, instead of frightening women and pillaging houses. Return to your homes, or, better still, go and join the king's army, and fight like men for your homes and your religion." He listened, but there was no answer. The rapparees knew they had no chance of breaking into the house, so defended, and, when Walter ceased, each man slunk away in the darkness. The next morning, a number of waggons arrived, and Walter, with the aid of the soldiers, had the satisfaction of loading them with everything of any value in the house, and of escorting them without interruption to Limerick. Mrs. Conyers was filled with gratitude, when she heard the events of the night, and how narrowly she and her daughter had escaped another attack. One of the principal tenants had come in with his waggon, and he agreed to move into the house, with his wife and family, until she should return. Seeing that now everything worth taking had been removed, he thought there was little chance of any attempt to destroy the house.	{ "id": "18356" }
12	: Winter Quarters.	Two or three days later, Captain Davenant returned to Limerick with his troop. He had stopped at the house on his way, and learned there of the move which had been made. "Well, Walter, so you nearly had to defend Mrs. Conyers against odds, again," he said, as Walter joined him in the marketplace, where the troop was dismounting. "I have come here for a day, only, for we are on our way south. It is thought likely that the enemy's next move may be against Cork, so some of us are detached in that direction. "To my mind," he went on, after he had seen the troop quartered, in some houses which formerly belonged to the Protestants, but were now used as barracks--"in my opinion, we are wasting precious time. We ought not to allow the enemy to go into winter quarters. Our best season is just coming on. We can stand the wet far better than they can, and we ought not to give them a moment's rest, but should keep our army together, and beat up one garrison after another; threaten the strongest places; compel them to keep constantly on the move; and, before the spring, completely wear out and exhaust those whom we cannot conquer. If England found that she had the whole work to begin over again, she would think twice before she went further. "These petty German princes would not find their men so ready to embark in a quarrel, with which they have no concern, when they learned that all who had done so had laid their bones in the swamps of Ireland, and, without his mercenaries, William would find it hard to gather an army, for the English themselves have no heart whatever in the war. If we remain inactive all the winter, and enable them to retain their foothold everywhere, fresh reinforcements will arrive in the spring, and so, bit by bit, all Ireland will be won. "It is disheartening in the extreme, after seeing the enemy retire, repulsed and utterly disheartened, from Athlone and Limerick, to allow them unmolested to rest and gather strength again. If we could but get rid of the French, there would be some hope for us. They have scarce fired a shot, since the war began, and yet they assume superiority over our generals. They thwart us at every turn. They not only refuse to combine in any action, but they prevent our doing so. "Since the Boyne, our army has lain inactive and has done nothing, although they might have done everything. All Ireland was open to them, on the day when William, with all his forces, sat down here before Limerick. Why, they could have marched straight for Dublin and captured it, before William heard that they had crossed the Shannon. They might have cut off his supplies from Waterford. They might have starved him out in his camp here. They have had the game in their hands, and they have allowed it to slip altogether through their fingers. The only hope I have, now, is that before the spring the French will go. It is but too clear that Louis has no intention, whatever, of helping us in earnest. Had he chosen he could, any time during the last six months, have landed an army here, which would have decided the struggle. Instead of that, he has sent five thousand men, and had in return as many of our best soldiers; and the officers he sent seem to have been furnished with secret instructions, not only to do nothing themselves, but to prevent us from doing anything." "Whom would you like to see in command, father?" "I should not care much, Walter, so that it was one man. I had rather have any soldier you might take at random from our army, so that he possessed a fair share of common sense, than the chaos which now prevails; but, of course, the man whom we would rather have is Sarsfield. Whether he is a great general or not, we have no means of knowing, for he has never yet had the slightest opportunity of showing it; but I do not think, myself, that he has made the most of what chances he has had, save that one dash against the artillery convoy. He has done nothing; and, as the cavalry are under his command, and he could, if he chose, snap his fingers at the pretensions of the French and act independently, I think he might have done far more than he has done. Still, he is our most prominent leader, and he possesses the confidence of the Irish of all classes. If he were in supreme command there would, I am sure, be a complete change in our tactics. Instead of waiting everywhere to be attacked, we should take the offensive, and, even if we were unable to meet William's forces in pitched battles, and I believe that we are perfectly capable of doing so, we should be able to harass and exhaust them, to such a point that William would be only too glad to grant us any terms we might demand, to bring the war to an end." After having dined, Captain Davenant went with Walter to call upon Mrs. Conyers. Hearing that he was about to march with his troop to Cork, Mrs. Conyers said: "Oh, Captain Davenant, will you not take us under your protection there? I am afraid of travelling with Claire to Galway, in the present disturbed state of the country, and I should find it easier to take a passage to England from Cork than from Galway." "You certainly would, Mrs. Conyers. There is no formal war between England and Ireland, and trading vessels still ply between Cork and Bristol. I agree with you that it would not be safe for two Protestant ladies to travel, without protection, from here to Galway, and I shall be only too glad for you to journey with us. Your daughter, I know, can ride any of the country ponies; and for yourself--" "I can ride, too, if there is an occasion. One of our horses is perfectly quiet, and I have often ridden him by the side of Mr. Conyers, so there will be no difficulty on that score." "In that case," Captain Davenant said, "consider the matter as arranged. Will you be ready to start tomorrow, early?" "Certainly, Captain Davenant; I have no preparations to make. All our furniture--which, thanks to Walter, was saved--has been stowed away in the cellars of a warehouse here, and is safe unless William returns and batters the whole town to pieces. The silver and other valuables our friends here will take care of, till better times, so we have only to pack two valises and mount. The servants will all find situations here. My daughter's maid, Bridget, and two or three others have offered to accompany us to England, but we have decided to take no one. Directly we get to Bristol, I shall write to my husband, who has given me an address both in London and Dublin, so that he will doubtless join us in a very short time." The party started the next morning, and reached Cork without adventure, as there were no English troops in that part of the country. Three days after their arrival, Mrs. Conyers took a passage for herself and Claire in a trader about to sail for Bristol. The evening before they sailed, Mrs. Conyers had a long talk with Captain Davenant, while the two young people had slipped off for a last walk together. "Of course, Captain Davenant," she began, "you have seen, as well as I have, how things stand between Claire and Walter. They are both very young, but the strange circumstances of the times, and the manner in which they have been thrown together, have combined to render their position peculiar, and I believe, nay, I am sure, that on both sides their affection is deep and will be lasting." "I quite agree with you, Mrs. Conyers, at any rate as far as my son is concerned. Walter has never spoken to me on the subject. I suppose fathers and sons are less given to confidences of this sort than mothers and daughters. But that Walter is deeply and earnestly attached to your daughter is unquestionable, and, indeed, it would be singular were it otherwise. I have stood passive in the matter, simply because I saw that you took no steps to keep them apart; and you could not but have seen, at an early period of their acquaintance, in what direction matters were tending." "Frankly," Mrs. Conyers said, "I gave the matter no thought, during your first stay with us. I had regarded Claire as a child, and it did not, at first, occur to me that there could be any danger of her falling seriously in love, for years to come. When my eyes were opened to the true state of things, and I found my little girl had lost her heart, I could have wished it otherwise. "I do not mean as to worldly matters," she went on hastily, seeing that Captain Davenant was about to speak. "That weighed absolutely nothing with me. Indeed, they may be considered to be well matched in that respect. If the war is decided in favour of King William, Claire will be a rich heiress. If, on the other hand, your cause triumph, you will regain your confiscated estates, while we shall lose ours. So that there is, I consider, no inequality whatever in their position. The difficulty, of course, to which I allude is their religion. This is naturally a grave obstacle, and I fear that my husband will regard it as such, even more strongly than I do. He is, however, extremely attached to Claire, and will, I feel sure, when he sees that her happiness is at stake, come round to my views of the matter. "There are," she said with a smile, "Catholics and Catholics, just as there are Protestants and Protestants. I would rather see Claire in her grave than married to many Catholics I know; but neither you nor Walter are bigots." "No, indeed," Captain Davenant said. "We came over to this country when Catholicism was the religion of all England, and we have maintained the religious belief of our fathers. I own that what I may call political Protestantism is hateful to me; but between such Catholicism as mine, and such Protestantism as yours, I see no such broad distinctions as should cause us to hate each other." "That is just my view," Mrs. Conyers agreed. "The differences between the creeds are political rather than religious, and, in any case, I consider that when neither of the parties is bigoted, the chances of happiness are greater in the case where the man is a Catholic and the woman a Protestant, than in the opposite case." "I think so, too," Captain Davenant said. "At any rate, I do not think that Walter and Claire would be likely to quarrel over their respective opinions." "I think not," Mrs. Conyers agreed with a smile. "I do wish, with all my heart, that it had been otherwise; but, as it is not so, I for my part am determined to make the best of the circumstances. They are both young, and it is possible that they may, in time, come to think alike, one way or the other. I am not one of those who think that there is but one way to heaven; and, should Walter some day win Claire over to his way of thinking, I shall not consider that she has forfeited her chances." "It is quite as likely to be the other way," Captain Davenant said. "Walter is a good lad, and a brave one, but, with all Claire's pretty winning ways, I question if the young lady has not more will of her own, and more mind, than Walter has. I hope they may agree each to go their own way, and I think that, if they continue to live in this country, they will probably do so, for here, unhappily, political differences build up a wall between the two branches of Christianity. But, if it should come that they should some day leave this unhappy country, and settle in England, where the same ill feeling does not exist, there is no saying what may happen." "Well, at any rate, Captain Davenant, it is satisfactory that our views on the subject agree, and that we are both willing to make the best of what we cannot but consider to be a misfortune. But here come the young people. I have no doubt," she laughed, "that they have been swearing vows of eternal fidelity." "Well, we were young ourselves, once, and we are not too old, yet, Mrs. Conyers, to feel enjoyment in the happiness of these young people." The next morning, Mrs. Conyers and Claire sailed for England, and the military events, which shortly afterwards took place, left Walter little time for thought on other subjects. On the 21st of September, two days after the departure of Mrs. Conyers, a heavy cannonading was heard from the forts at the mouth of Cork harbour, and, soon afterwards, a horseman galloped into the town with the news that an English fleet had forced the entrance, in spite of the fire from the forts. This fleet bore five thousand men, under the command of the Earl of Marlborough. The English party at court had long been mortified and disgusted at the manner in which the English had been ignored by William, and all the military commands bestowed upon foreigners. The discontent, caused by the want of success which had attended the operations in Ireland, had greatly strengthened this party, and they had now succeeded in getting an independent English expedition sent off, under the command of an English general. William was much annoyed at this, for any brilliant success attained by Marlborough would have increased the feeling against his foreign favourites. He had, therefore, despatched the division of General Scravenmore to besiege the town on the land side, and had placed in command of it the Duke of Wirtemberg, whose rank as a prince, and as a general of higher rank than Marlborough, would enable him to claim the supreme command, and to carry off the honour of any success that might be gained. This force arrived before the town, within a day of the appearance of the fleet. Marlborough had already made good use of his time, for immediately the leading vessels had effected the passage, troops were landed in boats, and the batteries attacked in rear and carried. The rest of the fleet then entered, and, on the 23rd and 24th, the troops were landed on the south bank of the river, and commenced their march towards the city, the sailors dragging the guns. Wirtemberg immediately sent to Marlborough, to claim the command of the whole force. Marlborough replied that his commission was an independent one. He denied the authority of any of William's foreign officers in Ireland, and stated haughtily that his troops were British, and he a British officer. Wirtemberg was greatly offended that the English general should affect to look down upon the Danes, Germans, French, and other foreign ragamuffins who composed his command, and he insisted strongly upon his claims. Marlborough maintained his position, and Wirtemberg was driven, at last, to propose that they should command on alternate days, and Marlborough agreed to the proposal. The position of Cork was not a strong one, although, in the days before the use of artillery, it was considered well-nigh impregnable, being built upon the islands and marshes formed by the river Lea, and completely surrounded by two branches of the river. But upon three sides it was surrounded, at a short distance only, by high hills, which completely commanded it, and these hills were defended only by castles and forts of no great strength. The garrison was but small, for the Irish were taken by surprise by the arrival of Marlborough's expedition, and had prepared only for a siege by Wirtemberg and his foreign division. They were therefore obliged to abandon Shandon Castle, and two adjoining forts, which defended the hills on the north of the city, and Wirtemberg's Danes at once took possession of these works, and, planting their guns there, opened fire on the northern quarter of the city. Marlborough constructed his batteries at a monastery called the Red Abbey, on the south point of the river, where he was separated from the city only by the stream and narrow strip of marshy ground. These guns soon made a breach in the walls, and Marlborough prepared to storm the place, for, at low tide, it was possible to wade across the marsh and river. The garrison, well aware that they could not long defend the place, now offered to capitulate on the same terms which William had granted to the garrisons of towns he had captured; namely, that they should be allowed to march out with the honours of war, with their arms and baggage, and to make their way unmolested to Limerick. The Prince of Wirtemberg was strongly in favour of these terms being granted, but Marlborough peremptorily refused. While a sharp dispute took place between the two officers, and before any conclusion could be arrived at, the tide rose, and the regiments drawn up ready to cross the river could no longer pass. The firing then recommenced on both sides. Notwithstanding the efforts of the besieged to repair the injury to their wall, the breach daily increased in size. Wirtemberg moved his forces round from the north side, to take their share in the assault, and at low tide the English and Danes advanced against the breach. Under a heavy fire from the walls, they struggled through the marshes and entered the river, which, even at low tide, reached to their shoulders. Suffering heavily from the fire, they pushed forward until they nearly reached the breach. Here the Duke of Grafton, who commanded the British column, fell dead, with many officers and men; but the rest maintained their order, and were about to make a dash at the breach, when the governor, accompanied by Lord Tyrone, raised the white flag. After a short parley, it was agreed that the garrison should become prisoners of war, but were to be protected in their persons and private property. The city was to be preserved from any injury, and the citizens and their property were to be respected. Captain Davenant's troop had remained idle, during the siege, as there was no work for cavalry. They were quartered near an infantry regiment, which had been raised by MacFinn O'Driscol from among his own tenantry, and was commanded by him. O'Driscol was a relation of Mrs. Davenant, and the two commanders were often together. Both felt that the city must speedily fall, unless the Irish army moved down to its relief; but they agreed that, if it surrendered, they would make an effort to escape with their troops, for they had no faith in the observance of any terms of capitulation which might be made. Accordingly, as soon as it was known that the governor had surrendered, and that the gates of the town were to be handed over to the British, O'Driscol and Captain Davenant formed up their commands, and, opening one of the gates, marched boldly out. The exact terms on which the garrison had surrendered were not known, and Marlborough and Wirtemberg were near the breach, arranging for the troops to take possession of the gates on that side. Consequently, the besieging forces opposite the gate from which the little column had marched out supposed that, in accordance with the arrangement, they were coming out to lay down their arms. They therefore stood aside as the column passed, being far more intent upon the plunder they expected to gather, in Cork, than on anything else. As, a few minutes later, the gates were opened and the troops poured into the city, no further thought was given to the little force which had marched out; and the five hundred infantry, and the troop of horse, were safe from pursuit before the news of the audacious ruse they had practised reached the ears of the generals. Inside the town, the articles of the treaty were at once violated. The troops entered the town in crowds, and, incited, as in Dublin, by a mob calling themselves Protestants, they proceeded to plunder the houses and assault the Catholic inhabitants. The governor, M'Carty, was wounded. The Earls of Tyrone and Clancarty, with difficulty, made their escape from the mob. Many were killed, and a great destruction of property took place, before Marlborough and Wirtemberg entered the town and put a stop to the disorder, which inflicted great discredit upon them, as they had made no arrangements, whatever, to ensure the safety of the inhabitants, which they had solemnly guaranteed. It was now October, and Marlborough at once set about the investment of Kinsale. On the very evening of the day he entered Cork, he sent off five hundred horse towards that town, and the next day marched thither himself at the head of his infantry. The works of Kinsale consisted of two forts, both of considerable strength, called the Old Fort and Charles's Fort. They were well supplied with stores and provisions for a siege. On the approach of the besiegers, the governor set fire to the town and retired to the forts, and, in answer to the summons to surrender, replied that "it would be time enough to talk about that a month hence." Marlborough ordered General Tettau to cross the river in boats, with eight hundred picked men, and to carry Old Fort by storm. The assault was made with great determination and bravery; but the works were strong and stoutly defended, and the British were about to fall back, discomfited, when fortune came to their assistance. Some loose powder ignited and fired the magazine, by which more than two hundred men of the garrison were killed, and the works seriously injured. After this disaster, the governor abandoned the fort and withdrew, with the survivors of its garrison, to Charles's Fort. Marlborough at once commenced the siege of this position, but for fifteen days the place resisted all his efforts. The heavy loss, however, which the garrison had suffered by the explosion in Old Fort, rendered them unable, by sallies, to interfere with the works of the besiegers. These were carried on with great vigour, for Marlborough feared that the approach of the wet season would put a stop to his operations. When, therefore, the governor offered to surrender, on the terms of his being permitted "to march away with his garrison, their arms, baggage, and all the honours of war, taking with them all persons who wished to accompany them, together with their property, to Limerick," Marlborough at once granted the terms demanded. The advent of winter now put a stop to regular operations; but a war of skirmishes continued, and the British, in their quarters, were greatly straitened for forage and provisions. In Dublin, the work of confiscation went on merrily. The greater part of the Catholic proprietors of the town were thrown into prison. The various indictments against country gentlemen, followed by the confiscation of their property, were hurried through the court with the merest shadow of legal form; for, the defendants being absent and unacquainted with what was being done in Dublin, it was only necessary to recite the accusation to find the accused guilty, and to pass sentence of confiscation--all this being the work of a few minutes only. Nothing could be done, however, to carry the sentences into effect, for William's troops still possessed only the ground the troops stood upon, and the towns they occupied. Outside those limits, the whole country was against them. The Earl of Marlborough had returned to England, immediately after the surrender of Kinsale; and General Ginckle, who had now succeeded to the command, determined to harass the enemy, and to increase the resources at his disposal by an expedition into the southwest of Ireland, which, covered by Cork and Limerick, had hitherto been free from the presence of any English troops. He therefore pushed a strong body of cavalry and infantry westward from Cork and Kinsale; and these succeeded in making themselves masters of Castle Haven, Baltimore, Bantry, and several other castles on the line of coast. The district was wild and mountainous, and the passes might have been easily held against the advance; but the peasants had not been organized for resistance, and no serious opposition was encountered. Colonel O'Driscol, a cousin of MacFinn O'Driscol, and Captain O'Donovan, two of the principal proprietors of the neighbourhood, soon arrived upon the spot, and assembled a large irregular force, consisting chiefly of mounted peasants; and with these they soon cooped the invaders up in the castles they had taken. O'Driscol next attempted the recovery of his own Castle Haven, which was strongly defended, and stood on a cliff overhanging the sea; but his wild peasants were ill adapted for such work, and they were repulsed by the English garrison, and O'Driscol himself killed. But another force was advancing from the north. MacFinn O'Driscol, with his regiment, pressed forward along the line of Bandon river, besieged and captured Castle Haven, and expelled the English garrisons from Baltimore and Bantry. General Tettau had also marched out from Cork with several regiments of infantry and dragoons, with the intention of penetrating into Kerry; but the enemy's light troops harassed him night and day, wasted the country, and defended every pass; and he was obliged to return to Cork, without having accomplished anything. All this time Ginckle was urging upon the lord justices, who were now the real ruling party in Ireland, to issue a proclamation offering pardon and security for person and property to all who came in; urging that it was impossible that he could ever subdue the country, while the whole population had everything at stake in opposing him. He was supported by King William, who was most anxious to bring the struggle to an end; but the lord justices, and the Protestant party at Dublin, who were bent upon dividing among themselves the property of the Catholics throughout Ireland, turned a deaf ear to the arguments of Ginckle, and their friends in London had sufficient power to prevent the king from insisting upon his own wishes being carried into effect. After taking part in the operations in Kerry, Captain Davenant's troop returned to Limerick, around which city the greater part of the Irish army were still encamped.	{ "id": "18356" }
13	: A Dangerous Mission.	"Walter," Captain Davenant said to his son one day, when he returned from a council in which he had taken part, at the quarters of General Sarsfield, "I have a mission for you in Dublin. It is necessary, in the first place, to communicate with some of our friends there, and in the second to ascertain, as far as we can, the plans of the enemy during the next campaign. There are few of us here who would not be readily recognized in Dublin; therefore, when there seemed a difficulty in selecting someone to undertake the duty, I said that I thought you would be likely to succeed better than most. "You have not been any time in Dublin, and I question whether a single person there would be likely to recognize you. You will, of course, be in disguise, and your youth will be in your favour. I don't say there is no danger in such an undertaking, but I do not think the risk is greater than that which you have frequently run. I was sure you would readily undertake the mission, and I thought I could answer for your intelligence as well as your discretion." "I will undertake it, certainly, father, if you think me capable of it," Walter said. "It is dull enough here, now that the wet weather has thoroughly set in, and I shall really like the adventure. When am I to set out?" "Tomorrow. Your instructions, and the letters you are to carry, will be drawn up tonight, and you can set off after breakfast. I shall ride with you, with a part of the troop, until you are past the point where you are likely to fall in with any body of the enemy's cavalry. After that you will, of course, shift for yourself. We think you had best travel on foot, dressed as a peasant. In that way you will attract no attention, and pass through towns occupied by the enemy without questioning." "I think, father, I will take Larry with me, if you have no objection. He would be the real thing, and could do most of the talking. Besides, sometimes it is very useful to have someone to send with a message, or to put on guard when one went in anywhere." "Take him, by all means, Walter, and, indeed, I agree with you that you may find him very useful." Accordingly, the following morning Walter and Larry, dressed as young peasants, mounted, and with the troop started from the camp. No signs of any parties of the enemy were seen during their ride, and after proceeding some five-and-twenty miles, they dismounted, and with a hearty farewell from Captain Davenant, and a cheer from the men, they started on foot. The letters of which Walter was the bearer had been written on very small pieces of paper, and had been sewn up inside the collar of his coat. His instructions, as to the persons on whom he was to call, had been learned by heart and the paper destroyed. Larry was in high glee at taking part in the adventure, and laughed and jested as they made their way along. They avoided the main roads running to Waterford and Dublin, as they would probably have fallen in with parties of troops journeying west, and might have been shot out of pure wantonness, besides being exposed to the risk of being asked awkward questions. They slept at peasants' houses, where they were everywhere hospitably received, as soon as their hosts assured themselves that they were Catholics. Larry was the principal spokesman, for although Walter, like all the Catholic gentry, spoke the native language, he was not so fluent as his follower, to whom it came naturally, as, although the peasantry in the neighbourhood of Dublin were all able to speak English, they always conversed in Irish among themselves. Larry gave out that he and his companion had been serving in the army, and had obtained leave to pay a visit to their native village, near Dublin, for the winter. "I doubt whether you will find much of it standing," one of their hosts said, "for I hear that county Wicklow, and all round Dublin, has been wasted by them foreign devils in Dublin. The curse of Cromwell be upon them! But we'll be aven wid them yet. They say next spring a big French army is coming, and they will set the Germans running so that they won't stop till the last man gets on board ship, and ould Ireland is free from them, the murthering haythens. But you must be careful, lads, and not let out to a sowl that ye have been wid the boys in the west, or it's short work they would make of you." In every case they were asked questions about sons or relations with the army, and were often able to give news as to where the regiments to which they belonged were stationed, and of the part they had taken during the last year's fighting. News travelled slowly, and was circulated principally by means of travelling peddlers, who hawked their wares from village to village, and reported what was going on in the outside world. Thus, although the peasants were aware of the general details of the fighting which had taken place, they knew nothing of the part which the various regiments had borne in it. Reading and writing were rare accomplishments, and the post was altogether interrupted, so that many remained in suspense, from the beginning to the end of the war, as to the fate of those who had left them to take part in it. The friends did not make long journeys, for Walter was unaccustomed to walk barefooted, and his feet at first were very sore and tender; but by the time they reached Dublin they had hardened, and he was able to stride along by the side of Larry, who, until he started with him for the war, had never had on a pair of shoes in his life. As soon as they reached Dublin, they made their way to the quarters inhabited by the working classes. There Walter purchased shoes, and made such alteration in their attire as to do away with their country aspect, and give them the appearance of two young fellows belonging to the town. Having hired a room, and made these changes, they sallied out. The streets were thronged with foreign troops, who behaved as if in a conquered country, swaggering along the streets, pushing the citizens out into the middle of the road, abusing the tradesmen who refused to part with their goods at nominal prices, making insolent remarks to any woman who hurried past them, and behaving with a freedom and license which showed how completely all bonds of discipline were relaxed. "They look mighty bould," Larry whispered, "but it's mighty little of it they show when they see the Irish horse advancing agin them. No one would think, to see them now, as they were the men we saw spurring away for the bare life on Boyne Water." "No, indeed, Larry," agreed Walter, who was furious at what he saw. "I wish we had a few squadrons of Sarsfield's horse here. We would clear the street of these vermin in no time. But you must be careful, Larry. Whatever happens, we must not get into any brawl. We have a mission to perform, and must not think of ourselves." "I will remember it, yer honour." It was well that Larry had been warned, for the next moment a German soldier passing brushed against him, and then, with a savage oath, turned and struck him to the ground. Larry sprung up with his eyes blazing with passion, but he caught Walter's warning "Larry," and, hanging his head, moved away without a word. "That's right, Larry," Walter said approvingly. "I was afraid for a moment that you were going to spring at that fellow. If you had you would have been in a lockup in five minutes, and as you could have given no good account of yourself, there you might have remained for weeks." "If ever I meet that fellow outside Dublin," Larry muttered savagely, "I will pay him for the blow he gave me." Seeing the risk of another encounter of the same kind, Walter led the way down to the bank of the river, and there they remained, chatting, until it became dusk. "Now, Larry, I must begin my work. My first visit is to be to a merchant, who lives in a street close to where the ships discharge. While I am in, do you sit down on a doorstep near, and keep a sharp lookout to see whether the house is watched. It is not likely, but all the better class of Catholics who remain in the town are regarded with suspicion." Walter had no trouble in finding the house he was in search of, and, knocking at the door, he told the servant who opened it that he wanted to see the master. "You must come in business hours," the man said. "He can't see you now." "I have a letter to him, from his friend Mr. Fitzgerald of Waterford. If you tell him that, I think he will see me now." "That's all right," the man said. "He tould me if anyone came with a letter from that gentleman, I was to show him up." So saying, he led him upstairs. "Here's a young man, your honour, with the letter you tould me about, from Mr. Fitzgerald." "Show him in," a voice said; and Walter entered a sitting room. The gentleman who was with him said nothing, until the door was closed behind him. Then he asked: "Has the ship come in?" To which Walter replied: "She is sailing slowly, but she will come." "That's right," the merchant said, rising. "Where do you come from?" "I am Walter Davenant, a cornet in my father's troop of horse, and I have come direct from Limerick. I have a letter for you, in my collar." He pulled off his coat, the merchant handed him a knife, he ripped open the collar, and, taking out the papers concealed there, picked out that intended for Mr. O'Brian, which was not directed, but had only a slight mark upon it to distinguish it from the others. The merchant read it in silence. "I am disappointed, Mr. Davenant," he said, as he finished it. "I had hoped that a dash would be made at Dublin this winter; but the general says that it has been decided to fight one more campaign on the defensive, and that in the autumn, when the French arrive, there will be a general advance. Now, I am ready to answer any question you are instructed to ask." "In the first place, sir, how many men do you think would be ready to join in any rising in Dublin?" "It would all depend upon whether an Irish army was advancing in this direction. In that case, some seven or eight thousand men would rise. But unless, there were a hope of early assistance, I do not think that above a thousand could be relied on. I have about that number on my list. They, as you see, could do nothing unassisted. There are three or four thousand troops here, and the Protestant mob who would join them would number seven or eight thousand, at the very least. Therefore, any attempt to rise in the face of such odds, unless after a crushing defeat of William's troops, would be out of the question. But, as I said, if an army were marching on Dublin, the Protestants would be thinking more of taking to their ships than fighting, and all the Catholics in the city would then join the movement." "I think the general hoped that you could have mustered a stronger force, sir." "So I could, a year ago," Mr. O'Brian said; "but the constant persecution and ill treatment of the Catholics have caused large numbers of them to leave the town. Many of the younger and more determined men have made their way west and joined the army. I fear that the numbers I have given are quite as many as can be relied upon." "The general was in hopes," Walter said, "that a diversion might have been caused in the spring, by a rising in Dublin, which would, even if unsuccessful, compel the Dutch general to keep a large force here." "It might have been done, six or eight months ago," Mr. O'Brian said; "but the spirit of the people here has been very much broken, as well as their numbers diminished. But you can rely upon it, that if anything like a general rising can be got up, we will do our share here. With but a thousand men I can rely on, I feel that any open insurrection would be hopeless; but we could fire the city at a score of points, night after night, and so alarm the citizens that they would insist on a considerable force being kept here for their protection, and this would aid our friends outside. I know nothing as to what is being done there, I have only charge of the matter inside the city." "I am well aware of that, sir, and have to call upon those who have the threads of the movement, throughout the country, in their hands. I only arrived today, and came to you first, in order that I might know how matters stand here before I see the others. I shall, of course, call again upon you before I leave." After leaving Mr. O'Brian, Walter visited the houses of several others to whom he bore letters. The accounts of the feeling throughout the country were more encouraging than those which he had received from Mr. O'Brian. The hatred of the invaders was greater than ever, and the peasantry in all parts were in a state of sullen desperation. Indeed, the enemy could nowhere move, in small parties, without the certainty of being attacked. The pressing need was arms. A great part of the peasants who owned guns had already joined the army, and the rest possessed no weapons beyond roughly-made pikes, and scythes fixed on long handles. These were formidable weapons in a sudden attack on any small party, but they would not enable the peasants to cope, with any chance of success, against considerable bodies of troops, especially if provided with artillery. The persons whom Walter saw were in communication with the disaffected in all parts of the country, and agreed in the opinion that a general rising should be delayed, until some striking success was obtained by the Irish army, when the whole country would rise and fall upon the enemy wherever met with. The plans for a rising having been discussed and arranged, after several interviews, at some of which most of the leaders of the movement were present, Walter prepared to start again for the camp, with the news that the first Irish victory would be followed by a rising throughout the country, aided by great conflagrations, if not by a serious movement in Dublin. The negotiations had occupied over a fortnight. During the first ten days, Larry, who always kept watch outside the house Walter was visiting, reported that nothing whatever had occurred that was in the slightest degree suspicious. Then he told Walter, on his retiring to their lodgings, that he fancied their footsteps were followed. "Do you think so, Larry?" "I do, yer honour," Larry replied earnestly. "Three times, when you were in the house, the same man came along the street, and each time I saw him look up at the windows, and somehow I felt that he was following us on our way back. I looked round several times, and each time I fancied I saw a fellow slip into a doorway." "That is serious, Larry. You don't think anyone in this house can have a suspicion of us?" "Not they, yer honour. They all think it's just as you say; that the village was burned, and we have come to look for work in the city. Besides, if it was anyone here, he wouldn't have to take the trouble to track us back." "That's true enough, Larry. No; if there is a suspicion, it must be from some spy in the house of one of the gentlemen I have visited. We know that the leading Catholics are all suspected, and some of the servants may have been bribed to report everything which takes place in the house. We must be very careful; and let us arrange this, Larry, that if there is trouble and we get separated, we will neither of us come back to our lodging, but will meet at that burned-out village three miles along the western road. If anything happens to me, go to the first house I went to, and see Mr. O'Brian, and tell him that I have been taken. If there is anything to be done he will do it. If not, make your way straight back to Limerick. I have told you exactly what has been arranged with people I have seen, and you can tell my father, who will report to the general. But whatever you do, don't stop here with any idea of getting me out of their hands. The most important thing is that they should know, at Limerick, exactly what has been arranged. If you remain here, you would almost certainly be caught also, for, as the man who has followed us will be aware that we are together, a search will at once be made for you. So mind, my orders are, that if you see I am in trouble you are at once to set out for Limerick. If you think that I may manage to get away, you are also to leave at once, but are to wait for me, for twelve hours, at the village three miles out. If I do not come by the end of that time, it will be that I have been taken, and you are to go straight on." It was on the evening when all the arrangements were finally settled, that a loud knocking was heard at the door of the house where eight of the principal persons in the affair were assembled. One of them looked out of the window, and announced that the street was full of soldiers. All leaped to their feet, and drew their swords. "It is of no use to resist, gentlemen," Walter said. "Do you put bottles and glasses on the table, and sit down quietly. I will try to escape. If they find you alone, they can prove nothing against you, and if I get safe off, you also are safe. Is there any way out on to the roof? No doubt the house is watched behind." "There is a trapdoor," the gentleman, in whose house they were, said, and led the way upstairs at full speed. As he was unbolting the trap, Walter ran into a bedroom and seized an armful of blankets, then ran up the ladder to the trapdoor, and stepped out on to the roof. The door was closed behind him, and he heard the bolts drawn, and then his host ran downstairs and told the frightened servants to open the doors, which had so far resisted the attack from without. Headed by an officer, the soldiers rushed in. "What means this violence?" the gentleman asked. "Why is my house broken into in this way?" "I arrest you, and all who are in this house," the officer said, "on the charge of treason." "Treason!" the gentleman said, coolly. "You will find no treason here. I have a few friends upstairs, who are cracking a bottle of port; but that is not, so far as I am aware, against the law." The officer ran upstairs to the room where the others were standing, as if surprised at the tumult, round the table, on which were bottles and half-filled glasses. "Take the names of all these persons," the officer said to the sergeant who followed him, "and then convey them in custody to the castle." "There is no trouble about their names," the host said. "All are well known and peaceful citizens, as can be testified by any magistrate." "Where is the man who was with you?" the officer said, looking round. "There is, so far as I am aware, no one in the house, sir, beyond these gentlemen and my domestics." "It is a lie!" the officer exclaimed, furiously. "A man was seen to enter this house, an hour and a half ago, and no one has left since." "A young man! Oh, I suppose you mean the young fellow who brought me a message from my cousin, at Waterford, and who called to ask if I had yet found him any employment. Oh yes, he has been here, but left some time ago, unless he is chatting with the maids in the kitchen." The officer directed a rigorous search to be made of the house. The soldiers soon reported that every nook and corner had been examined, but that no one was to be found. At this moment, a shot was fired in the street, and a sergeant ran in. "Captain Peters bid me say, sir, that they have just caught sight of a man on the roof of a house, some distance along the street." "Take the prisoners to the castle, under a strong guard, sergeant. You will be answerable for their safety," the officer exclaimed, as he ran downstairs. Directly the trap closed behind him, Walter--sure that some minutes would pass before the method of his escape was known--tore the blankets he had brought with him into wide strips, tied the ends together, and twisted them up into the form of a rope; then, coiling this over his arm, he made his way along the roofs. The street below was now a mass of people. The report that a Popish plot had been discovered, and that a number of important arrests had been made, spread quickly, as the soldiers were seen gathered round the house. The news was sufficient to stir up party feelings, and the mob which collected soon set up the shout which had, of late, been so often raised in the streets of Dublin--"Down with the Papists!" Soon the crashing of glass was heard, as stones were hurled at the dwellings of known Catholics. Walter, anxious for the safety of Larry, who was, he knew, somewhere without, tried to look down into the street to see what was going on, believing that in the darkness he could not be seen. The flash of a musket, and the whistle of a ball close to him, showed him that his figure had been seen against the skyline. Drawing back, he paused a moment in thought. The trapdoor would be discovered at once, and a search on the roof commenced, and the soldiers would be placed behind the houses. There was no time to be lost in continuing his search for a house with a building projecting behind, onto which he could lower himself with his rope, which was not nearly long enough to reach the ground. Looking over at the back, between two of the sharp ridges of the roofs, he hung his rope so that it would fall across a window, fastened the end round a stack of chimneys, and then, taking hold of it, swung himself over. He had been very careful in tying the knots, and had tested them by pulling at them with all his strength; but he did not feel at all certain that they might not draw with his weight, in which case he must have been dashed to pieces on the ground far below him; but there was no time to hesitate, and, as fast as he could, he began to slide down the rope, the frequent knots affording good hold for his hands. At last he reached the window. It was made of the small diamond-shaped panes at that time in general use. Holding the rope with one hand and his legs, he dashed the other hand through a pane, just where he judged the fastening inside would be. Three panes were beaten in before he felt the latch. This was easily turned. The frame opened outward, and he had some difficulty in pulling it past him; then, grasping the woodwork, he drew himself in, and with a great effort succeeded in gaining a sufficient holding to enable him to leave go of the rope, and make good his footing inside. He had little fear of the inmates of the house taking notice of the fall of glass; for, had they noticed the sound above the din in the street, they would have supposed that the breakage was caused by one of the flying stones. He ran lightly downstairs, and opened a door at the back of the house, and found himself in the yard. The wall was not very high, and a spring enabled him to get his fingers on the top. He was soon sitting there, and then dropped into the road behind. The sound of his fall caught the ears of the soldiers, who were stationed at the back of the house from whence he had started, some fifty yards away. There was a sharp challenge, and then, as no answer was given, four or five shots were fired, and there was a rush of feet along the road. As it was only in the principal thoroughfares that a few lights were exhibited, the road would have been in complete darkness had not the clouds, just at that moment, blown away from the face of the moon, which was half full. The shots, however, had been fired hastily, and Walter dashed off at full speed, unhurt. He heard shouts from the roofs of the houses, and one or two shots were fired, but the chance of his being hit was but small. The sound, however, told the soldiers and crowd in the front street that the fugitive was escaping at the rear, and there was a general rush down the street to the next turning. Walter was a hundred yards ahead, before the mob reached the turning, and was rapidly distancing the soldiers who were pursuing him. Unfortunately, however, there were many people hurrying from all sides, attracted by the shouting and firing. Several of these, in response to the shouts of the soldiers, tried to stop him as he dashed past, and failing to do so, at once joined in the pursuit. Walter saw that he must be captured, if he kept straight on, for a group of men approaching, warned by the shouts of his pursuers, prepared to seize him. He therefore turned sharp down a narrow lane to his left. Another fifty yards he was through this, and found himself on the road, running by the side of the Liffey. Without a moment's hesitation he sprang across it, and plunged into the river. Even in the moment of his spring, he perceived that the tide was running up. Had it been ebbing, he would have made down and tried to gain the shore, under shelter of the shipping moored below. But it was useless to think of swimming against the tide. His pursuers were but a few yards behind him, and the second time he rose to the surface for air, two or three shots were fired. He dived again, and when he next came up, took a deliberate look round in order to judge of his chances. He was now about a third of the way across. The shore he had left was already lined with people, and several were gathering on the opposite bank. Two or three shots struck the water close to him, and he knew that he was visible to his pursuers. Taking a long breath, he again went under water. He was a first-rate swimmer and diver, having bathed regularly, summer and winter, in the bay below the castle. He had, this time, turned his face towards the shore he had quitted. The tide, he knew, was sweeping him up. He kept under water as long as he possibly could, swimming his hardest. When he could keep under no longer, he turned on his back, and permitted himself to rise slowly to the surface. The moment his mouth and nostrils were above water, he got rid of the pent-up air, took another breath, and sank again. He swam on until he felt, by the ground rising rapidly in front of him, that he was close to the edge. He then cautiously came to the surface, and looked round. He was close under the bank from which he had started, but two or three hundred yards higher up. The bank rose straight up, some twelve feet above him, and he could hear persons talking close to its edge. "There he is." "No, he isn't." "Pretty nearly over the other side." "I don't see him." "They will catch him as he gets out." "I believe he has sunk." "He never could keep under all this time." "One of the bullets must have hit him." Then a voice in the crowd shouted, "There's his head, just in the middle of the river," and a stone splashed in the stream. It was followed by a volley of other stones, and several musket shots in the same direction. Walter, having now got his breath, sank his head quietly below the water and swam on again, keeping close under the bank. Whenever he came up for air, he listened for a moment. Shots were still being fired below him, and he knew that the attention of all upon the shores was still directed towards the centre of the stream, and that there was but small chance of anyone leaning over to gaze down into the water close to their feet. His hopes rose, as every minute placed him further from his pursuers. He could no longer hear voices above him when he rose, but he swam on, for upwards of a mile, and struggled up the bank well beyond the walls of the town. He lay down a few minutes to rest himself, walked half a mile along the bank, and then, entering the river again, swam across, for the road he was to follow was on the south side of it. He made his way across the country until he saw a small shed. He entered this, and finding some hay in the loft, stripped off his wet clothes, and crept deep into the hay to warm himself, for the water was cold, and he was shivering from head to foot. As soon as it was light, he again put on his clothes and started at a run, which he maintained until he was in a thorough glow, in spite of his wet clothing. He did not approach the village, at which he had arranged to meet Larry, until the sun was high, and his clothes had dried so far that they would not attract the attention of anyone who might be passing. Then he went into the deserted village and took up his place in one of the ruined cottages, from which he could obtain a view of the road from Dublin. Half an hour later, he saw Larry coming along it. Although there was no one else in sight, someone might be going the other way, and Walter therefore remained in his hiding place till Larry was abreast of him, when he showed his head in the doorway, and called him by name. Larry gave a cry of joy and, rushing in, threw his arms round him and burst into tears. "It's a terrible fright you have given me!" he exclaimed, when he could find words. "I have been breaking my heart all night. Sure I thought you were at the bottom of the river." "Not this time, Larry, though it was a pretty close thing. Did you see it all?" "Sure and I did," Larry said. "I was sitting on a doorstep, watching the house, when I saw the sodgers coming along. They turned up from a side street, and were so close that I saw I could not get across and get the door opened in time to give you the alarm. Then they began to knock at the door, and for a bit I felt so wake that I could not move. Then the crowd began to gather, and then I said to myself, The master will try to shlip out at the back of the house. So I went round, but I found the thieves of the world waiting for ye there. But I was sure ye weren't the one to let them take ye widout a struggle for it. So I moved a bit away, and jist waited. "The time seemed long, when on a suddint I heard the sodgers sing out, and then fire, and set out to run. I never doubted it was you, and so off I went behindt them, as hard as I could tare. I wasn't long in coming up to them, and at first I thought ye would get clean away. Then my heart fell, when I saw those villains attempt to seize ye, but, when I thought it was all over, ye turned sharp off and made for the river. I was with the first of them to get there, and I ran, accidental, against the first sodger who got his musket to his shoulder, and there was no saying where the ball went to. He cursed me for a clumsy baste, and would have knocked me down, but he was in too great a hurry to load again. "I saw the bullets strike the water, close to you, when you came up again. I saw you look round, and guessed ye was thinking what was the best thing to do. Then we saw no more of ye. I didn't think you had been hit, for I saw you go down regular, as if you were diving in the sea for pleasure; and not sharp, as you would have done if a bullet had hit you. I guessed as you were meaning to swim up the stream, and I did the only thing I could to stop them from following up, by shouting that I saw ye, and throwing a big stone into the water close to where I had seen your head before, knowing that, by that time, ye must be nigh a hundred yards up. "The fools didn't stop to think, but they took to throwing stones, and firing as hard as they could, and by the time they had done I knew, if ye were alive, ye must be nigh a quarter of a mile up the river. Some of them did run up, and I kept with them, but sorrah a glimpse of ye did we get. At last, everyone made sure that you were kilt entirely, and went their ways. "I went off to our lodgings, but took good care not to go in. And it was well I didn't, for, half an hour later, a troop of sodgers came up, and some of them went in. "They were led by that black villain who used to come wid messages from Mr. O'Brian, and I have no doubt it was he who set the sodgers upon you. Anyhow, they didn't find much there, but four of them waited till morning inside, the others all going away, so that, if you had got out of the river, they might catch ye in a trap. "I waited till they had left this morning, thinking, I suppose, that it was no use to stay longer, and then started to see if your honour were here. "Sometimes I thought I should find you, then again, I tould myself that if you had been alive I must have seen you come up agin; for, knowing the strength of the stream, and how fast you could swim, I could tell pretty nigh about where you would come up, if you were keeping straight up the river. How did you manage it at all, Master Walter?" "I turned, and swam back again to the bank, Larry. I knew everyone would be watching the middle of the river, and would not be looking at the water in front of them. Of course, the stream took me up a long way. I only came up once, on my back, took a breath, and went down again, and the second time I was right under the bank and well out of sight, though I could hear them talking above me. It was just when I looked round, then, that I saw them throwing stones and firing into the middle of the river, two hundred yards lower down, and after that I had only to keep on swimming under water, close to the bank." "And that is how ye managed it! It was a grand thought, entirely, to swim back to us. I never thought of that. I was most afraid you would go for the opposite shore, and there were plenty had gathered there, ready to seize you. I didn't think I could have missed you, if you'd kept on in the middle, and I have been puzzled altogether as to what could have become of you, if ye were really alive. "I have got some bread in my bundle here, and a bottle of spirits, and you had better have a bite and a sup before we go on, for it's pretty nigh as white as a ghost ye are." The meal seemed to put new life and strength into Walter, and, after its conclusion, he was ready to step out again with fresh energy. They thought it better at once to leave the road, and tramp across the country. By so doing they avoided all parties of the English troops, and reached the Irish army without adventure. Walter at once reported himself to General Sarsfield, and related all that had taken place in Dublin. "You have done excellently, Mr. Davenant, and your escape from capture was an extraordinary one. Unfortunately, the betrayal of what was doing, and the arrest of our friends, is likely to upset all the plans you had arranged." "I hope not, sir," Walter said. "I know that they were all careful to have no written documents, for it was always possible that the houses of the Catholics might be searched." "That may be so," the general said; "but I fear that this traitor will have managed to overhear some of the conversation; and the fact of their meeting, and of your escape, will in itself tell against them sufficiently to ensure their being kept in prison, at any rate for a considerable time; and, even if released, they would be suspected persons, and would be unable to make the slightest move." The general's previsions were justified. The whole of those arrested were retained in prison for some months, and no such general rising as had been planned was ever carried into effect. During the winter, stores and ordnance arrived from France for the supply of the Irish army, and from England for the use of the British, and a great number of officers from the Continent also joined both armies. The discontent among the Irish at the apathy of France was extreme. They had embarked in the war on the strength of the promises of King Louis. None of these promises had been fulfilled. The supplies of arms and money had been most meagre, the few thousand troops sent had never taken part in any of the operations, and their coming had been much more than counterbalanced by the troops sent from Ireland in exchange for them. An additional cause of discontent was given by the fact that William exchanged all the prisoners taken in Ireland for Dutch prisoners, in the hands of Louis, and the Irish so handed over were all incorporated in the French army. So great was the discontent that, had a proclamation of pardon and protection been offered, the whole Irish army would have disbanded, and all resistance ceased. But Louis, alarmed at finding that it was likely William would be freed from his troubles at home, and be at liberty to give his whole attention to the war on the Continent, sent fresh promises of large and speedy aid; and despatched General Saint Ruth to take the command in Ireland, in place of Lauzun, who had returned to France. This appointment caused fresh discontent among the Irish. Their cause had already been well-nigh ruined by the interference and incapacity of the French generals, and, on the retirement of Lauzun, they had confidently expected that Sarsfield would be appointed commander-in-chief, and that henceforth there would be unity of design in their operations. Saint Ruth was accompanied by a large number of young French officers, whose demeanour still further widened the breach between the French and Irish. Saint Ruth at once inspected the army, now concentrated between Limerick and Athlone. Except that there was a great deficiency in horses for the cavalry, the army was greatly improved in discipline and appearance since the battle of the Boyne, for both officers, petty officers, and men had learned their duties. The army had passed the winter in comfortable quarters, and had been well supplied with food. The difficulty was to find horses. The rapparees had carried off many of the chargers of the English cavalry, by stratagem, and it was a common practice of the Danish and other foreign troops to sell their horses to the Irish, at the outposts, and pretend that they were stolen. Still, the supply was altogether insufficient, and Saint Ruth, finding that he could not get horses from the enemy, determined to take them from his friends. A proclamation was accordingly issued, inviting all the gentry throughout the country held by the Irish, to meet him at Limerick, mounted and accoutered in the best manner. Reports were spread that an important communication was to be made to the gentlemen of the country, from King James, and that many marks of honour and distinction were to be conferred. Accordingly, there was a very numerous attendance of gentry on the day fixed. Saint Ruth appeared on the ground with a large body of cavalry. He made a speech to the gentlemen--complimented them on their punctual attendance and gallant appearance; told them that it was necessary that every man should make sacrifices for the defence of his religion and his estates, and requested them to hand over their horses to the cavalry. He then at once rode off the ground, leaving the cavalry to take possession of the horses. Anger and expostulation were useless, and the gentlemen had to return on foot, sadder men; but the army obtained a large and valuable addition of horses, and Saint Ruth was able to march out at the head of twenty thousand foot, and five thousand well-appointed cavalry. Their direction was Athlone, towards which point Ginckle was also directing his movements, having assembled his whole force at Mullingar, withdrawing the garrisons from almost all the towns, in order to raise his force in the field. The alarm in Dublin was, in consequence, extreme, and the council and lords justices besought Ginckle not to leave them without protection; but he only replied that they had it in their own power to put an end to the war, by publishing such a declaration of pardon and security, for person and property, as would satisfy the Irish in James's army. But the council, even in this moment of alarm, refused to renounce their golden hopes of confiscation. Ginckle's first attack was directed against the village of Ballymore, which lay between Mullingar and Athlone. It was defended by a thousand cavalry and infantry, and a sergeant and a few men were posted, in a castle, on an eminence some distance from the village. The first attack was made on the castle, but the sergeant and his little garrison made a long and gallant resistance, and the savage Dutchman was so infuriated at the opposition that, when at last the post was taken, he ordered the gallant sergeant to be at once hung. He then sent word to the garrison of the village that, if they did not surrender, he would serve them as he had served the sergeant. They were unmoved by the threat, and made a long and gallant defence against the whole of Ginckle's army; and the Dutch general was unable to overcome their resistance, till he at last offered fair terms of surrender. The position being a strong and important one, Ginckle spent some days in adding to the defensive works the Irish had erected, before he moved forward and sat down in front of Athlone. His army was well provided with heavy artillery and everything necessary for a siege, and he was firmly resolved that there should be no repetition of the disastrous failure of the preceding autumn.	{ "id": "18356" }
14	: Athlone.	The Irish had, this time, determined to defend not only that portion of Athlone situated on the west of the river, but the English town on the east. The fortifications here were repaired and added to, and the town was abundantly supplied with stores and ammunition. It was, however, unable to resist the heavy artillery which Ginckle brought to play against it. Walls, buildings, and towers crumbled beneath the heavy cannonade; and although the Irish repelled, with great slaughter, several assaults upon it, the place became at last untenable, and they abandoned that part of the town, and retired by the bridge across the river to the Irish town. The British, on entering the eastern town, found it a mere mass of ruins, with the dead bodies of the soldiers lying everywhere, half covered with the wreck of the works they had died in defending. The taking of this portion of Athlone had cost Ginckle dearly, and he was but little nearer the object of his efforts, for he was separated from the Irish town by the Shannon, and the western arch of the bridge was broken down by the defenders. Eleven large guns and three mortars now came up from Dublin, and he erected a succession of batteries upon the ruins of the English town, and opened fire upon the castle of Athlone, which, although a building of great strength, soon crumbled into ruins beneath the fire of the heavy artillery brought to bear upon it. A mill, which stood in the river, and was connected with the bridge, was set on fire, and the sixty soldiers posted in it, being unable to escape, were all burned. Night and day, seven great batteries played incessantly upon the town. On the 26th of June, thirty waggons loaded with powder and a hundred carts with cannon balls arrived from Dublin, and enabled the besiegers to keep up their fire without intermission. The interior of the town was reduced to ruins--nothing remained erect save the city walls, in which the breaches, as fast as they were made, were repaired by the Irish. The slaughter among those so employed was very heavy; but there was no lack of men, the places of those who fell being at once supplied by others willing to give their lives in the defence of the town. At last, there was nothing more that the besiegers could do. The town was reduced to ashes, but the river and the broken arch still separated them from the ruins. To remain much longer where they were was impossible, for the country on every side was exhausted, and no longer afforded food for man or horse. The country people had fled, from the cruelty and spoliation of Ginckle's foreign soldiery, carrying with them all their effects; and the Irish light troops and armed peasantry hovered round the camp, laid the country waste, and intercepted their supplies and communications with Dublin. Ginckle held a council of war, to consider what was to be done. It was admitted that they must force the passage of the river without loss of time, or submit to the alternative of retreat, and the utter failure of the campaign. It was finally resolved to attempt the passage of the bridge by throwing a wooden gallery over the broken arch, and forcing their way across, at all cost. Additional batteries were now raised on the bank of the river, and a heavy fire was poured, without intermission, upon the Irish on their side of the broken arch. Both parties had erected a breastwork on the bridge, at their respective sides of the breach, and from behind this, day and night, a continued musketry fire was kept up, the grenadiers of the English army throwing grenades into the enemy's works. After some days, the breastwork on the Irish side was set on fire by the continued assault of shot and grenades. The wattles of which it was composed, dried by the hot weather, were soon in a blaze, and, under cover of the flames and smoke, the English ran forward the great beams they had prepared in readiness, and threw them across the gap in the bridge. The fire from all the batteries on the English side was directed against the burning breastwork, while the grenadiers hastened to lay planks across the beams to complete the bridge. The work was well-nigh done when an Irish sergeant and ten men, all clad in armour, leaped through the flames of the breastwork, and began to hew with their axes at the beams and planks. For a moment, the British were paralysed at the daring action. Then the batteries and musketry fire again opened, a storm of shot and bullets swept across the bridge, and the whole of the gallant fellows fell dead; but in a moment another party, similarly armed, dashed through the flames and took their places. Regardless of the fire they whirled their axes. Nine fell, but the last two gave the final stroke to the beams. The bridge fell with a crash into the river below, and the two survivors recrossed the breastwork and joined their friends within, amid the wild enthusiasm of the defenders; an enthusiasm in which even the baffled assailants joined, for the British grenadiers gave a cheer, in token of their admiration at the gallantry and devotion of the deed. In all history, there is no record of a more gallant action than this, performed by two sergeants and twenty men, who thus encountered almost certain death to maintain their post. The destruction of the temporary bridge filled Ginckle and his officers with consternation, and the manner in which their design had been baffled showed the spirit of the defenders, and the magnitude of the task which they had undertaken. But it was resolved, at another council which was called, to attempt one more effort before abandoning the enterprise. A finished platform was constructed. This was to be thrown over the arch, and a chosen body of the bravest troops in the army were to throw themselves across, and try to force a passage. At the same time, a division was to cross the river by a ford near the bridge, and another to attempt to cross by a bridge of pontoons, prepared in readiness. The Irish were informed, by French deserters, of what was going on in the English camp, and early on the morning of the assault, several strong divisions of the Irish army were seen marching down from the camp, two miles away, into the town. Here they were drawn up, in readiness to repulse the assault. The British were some time before they were ready for the attack, but at ten o'clock the whole army stood in close order, ready to advance. The first to move forward were those who were to carry the bridge. The Irish guns, which still remained intact, opened upon them, but they pressed forward along the bridge to the broken arch, and, with less trouble than had been anticipated, threw the platform across it. Instead of rushing forward at once, the grenadiers stood behind their breastwork and hurled their grenades at the Irish grenadiers, who stood in close order on the opposite edge. These, however, stood their ground, and hurled their grenades with great effect into the column. One of these exploded against the English breastwork and set it on fire. It at once blazed up. A strong west wind was blowing, and drove the smoke and flames into the faces of the English grenadiers, who for some time strove in vain to extinguish the flames, notwithstanding the heavy fire which the defenders poured into them. They had at last to fall back, and the Irish, sallying from behind their breastwork, pulled down the burning timbers on to the bridge, which was soon in flames. The other divisions of the English army, finding that the grenadiers on the bridge made no progress, did not attempt to perform their part of the work, and finally the whole retreated to their camp. That evening, another council of war was held. Matters now looked desperate, and the fact that the enterprise had, this time, failed owing to the hesitation of the troops to push forward to the attack of the enemy, made the prospect appear more hopeless. Nevertheless, in spite of the opposition of Generals Ginckle and Mackey, the council determined that one more attempt should be made, and that this should be carried out at daylight next morning, in the hopes of taking the Irish by surprise. It was accordingly given out that the army would retreat in the morning, and the heavy guns were withdrawn from the batteries. Saint Ruth, who was convinced that Athlone could not be taken, and who had spent the greater portion of his time in entertaining the ladies and gentry of the neighbourhood with balls and fetes, fell into the trap, and, contrary to the opinion and advice of the Irish generals, recalled from the town the regiments which had marched in that morning, and replaced them with only three battalions of inferior troops. The Irish officers remonstrated warmly, but Saint Ruth, to show his disdain for their opinions, invited a large party of ladies and gentlemen to an entertainment in the evening. In the night, the British army prepared for the attack. The commanders of the respective divisions all led their troops in person. The garrison of the town were all asleep. In Saint Ruth's camp the festivities were over, and the general and his officers had retired. The Irish sentinels, who noted the movement in the British camp, supposed that they were mustering to retreat, and thus the three British columns drew up inside the town wall, in readiness to advance, without a notion of their purpose being entertained on the opposite side of the river. One column, headed by sixty chosen men in complete armour, was to cross the bridge and throw a platform over the arch; another to cross by the ford: the third by a pontoon bridge. When the church bell tolled six, the three columns advanced simultaneously, and, before the Irish were thoroughly awake, the leading battalions had forded the river, the platform was in its place, and the troops pouring into the town. A few guns were hastily discharged, and then the men of the three Irish regiments in the town fled in haste, to avoid capture by the columns pouring across the river by the ford and pontoon bridge. Many, indeed, were captured whilst asleep. Saint Ruth, roused from sleep by the sound of cannon, ordered the troops to arms, but it was too late. The town, or rather its ruins, were in the possession of the British, and the brilliant success, which had been won by the valour and determination of the Irish troops, was forfeited by the carelessness, folly, and self-confidence of the French general. Had he listened to the advice of the Irish officers, the attempt, like those which had preceded it, must have failed, and in that case there was nothing remained to Ginckle but a precipitous retreat to Dublin, with the loss of the whole of the advantages gained in the previous campaign, and the necessity of bringing the war to an end by the concession of the rights and privileges of the Irish Catholics and landowners. The whole course of history was changed by the folly of one man. Ginckle had taken Athlone, but it was at a vast cost of life, and he was more than ever impressed with the magnitude of the task of subduing Ireland, so long as the people were driven to desperation by the threatened confiscation of all their lands, and by the persecution of their religion. King William, too, was more anxious than ever for the termination of hostilities, and, on the very day that the news of the fall of Athlone reached him, he issued a proclamation offering protection, security of all possessions, and continuance in any offices which they held under James, to all who would lay down their arms in three weeks' time. The issue of such a proclamation as this, a year before, would have satisfied the Irish and put a stop to the war; but it was now too late. The promises made had been broken, over and over again, and the Irish had but too much reason to fear that, when all opposition ceased, the council and their train of greedy adherents would again obtain the ascendency, and would continue their work of spoliation and robbery. Moreover, the Irish army did not feel itself in any way beaten. It was not its fault that the second siege of Athlone had not terminated as the former siege and that of Limerick had done, and that Ginckle's army was not hurrying back, defeated and disorganized, to Dublin. They felt that, at the battle of the Boyne, they had suffered no defeat, although, in accordance with the general plan, they had fallen back, and they eagerly desired to fight one battle to prove that, in the open field, they were more than a match for the mercenaries of King William. The council and lords justices, who were aghast at the proclamation, which threatened to destroy their hopes of dividing among themselves and their friends all the lands of the Catholics of Ireland, did their best to prevent its acceptance, by spreading rumours that it was a mere bait, and that its promises would not be fulfilled; while Saint Ruth and his French officers did their best, also, to set the Irish against it. Saint Ruth, who was really a good officer, was conscious that, so far from having gained credit, as he had expected from a command in Ireland, the misfortunes which had happened were entirely attributed to him, and he longed for an opportunity of wiping out the slur on his military reputation. He therefore urged upon the Irish generals that Ginckle had indeed gained but little; that all the hopes of William rested upon that army alone; and that, with its defeat, they could demand and obtain any terms they liked to lay down; besides which, he was able to assure them, by his advices from France, that Louis was making preparations for assisting them on a vastly larger scale than he had previously done. Thus, from a combination of circumstances, the proclamation elicited no response. While the siege of Athlone was being carried on, the main body of Sarsfield's cavalry remained, for the most part, in the camp near the town; but commanders of small bodies of men, like the corps of Captain Davenant, which were regarded as irregulars, had liberty of action. Some made long raids to the east, and often spread confusion and dismay among the enemy, by appearing suddenly when no Irish troops were believed to be within a hundred miles. Some went down and joined the peasants, who were keeping up desultory fighting in the neighbourhood of Cork, harassing the English whenever they moved from one point to another, or sent out parties to collect forage or provisions. Captain Davenant, who had more than once respectfully urged upon Sarsfield the immense benefit which would result, were the whole of the Irish cavalry to place themselves upon the line of the enemy's communication, finding that the Irish general was unmoved by his arguments, several times endeavoured to carry out his ideas, as far as could be done with his own small force. The inactivity of the Irish horse, throughout the long sieges of Athlone and Limerick, except only upon the occasion of the raid upon the siege train, is almost inexplicable. They had nothing to fear from the enemy's cavalry, to whom they proved themselves immensely superior, whenever they met during the war, and they had it in their power, for months, to cut the British communications and so oblige them, either to detach so large a force to keep the roads open that they would have been unable to push on the siege, and would indeed have been in danger of being attacked and destroyed by the Irish infantry; or to raise the siege, and fall back upon their bases, Dublin and Waterford. The only possible explanations that can be offered are--first, that Sarsfield, although a dashing commander in action, was possessed of no military genius whatever; second, that he was prevented from moving by the jealousy of the French commanders-in-chief, who did not wish to see the credit of compelling the enemy to fall back monopolized by the Irish cavalry; or, third, that Sarsfield saw the advantages which could be obtained by throwing himself, with his cavalry, in the rear of the enemy, but deliberately remained inactive rather than leave the French generals to act, unchecked by his presence at headquarters. It can never be decided to which of these alternatives it was due that the Irish cavalry remained for so long a time inactive, and that William, and after him Ginckle, were permitted, unmolested save by a few detached bodies of horse, to maintain their long line of communications to their base, unchecked. Upon one of his excursions in the rear of the English army, Captain Davenant's troops dashed down upon a convoy of waggons. The dragoons who were escorting them were killed or driven off. The drivers were collected in a group, for Captain Davenant always ordered that these men should not be injured, as they were not combatants, and were in most cases obliged to accompany their teams, which had been requisitioned for the service. The men were collecting the waggons together, preparatory to setting them on fire, when Walter, on riding near the group of drivers, heard himself called by name. Turning round, he leapt from his horse and ran up to one of the prisoners. "My dear John!" he exclaimed, "I am glad indeed to see you. Why, what brings you here?" After exchanging hearty greetings, Walter led him away from the group, and the two sat down together on a bank. "What brings you here?" Walter repeated. "All the waggons within miles round Dublin have been requisitioned," John said; "and as our three were called for, my father suggested that I should accompany them, to see that the horses were fed and cared for." "Which are your waggons?" Walter asked. "The three last in the column." Walter immediately ran to his father, told him what had happened, and begged that the three waggons should be exempted from the general destruction. Captain Davenant at once rode up to the men, and ordered the waggons to be unloaded and their contents added to the pyre which was being prepared, but that the waggons themselves should be taken back a quarter of a mile along the road, and left there under the charge of their drivers, who were not to move until joined by their owner. He then rode back, and shook hands with John. "I am glad to see you," he said. "All are well, I hope, at both our homes?" "Quite well, sir." "Thank God for that! Now, I must leave you to see that our work is thoroughly carried out. You will find your waggons safe, a quarter of a mile along the road. I will leave you to tell all the home news to Walter, who will retell it to me afterwards." "Now tell me all the news," Walter said, when they were together again. "The news is not altogether pleasant," John replied. "The whole of the country round Dublin is being harried by the cavalry in garrison there. They pay no attention whatever to papers of protection, and care but little whether those they plunder are Protestant or Catholic, friend or foe. They go about in small parties, like bands of brigands, through the country; and those who go to Dublin to obtain redress for their exactions are received with indifference, and sometimes with insult, by the authorities. Then, too, we have had trouble at home. "My grandfather became more bigoted than ever, and would, if he had the power, have annihilated every Catholic in Ireland. My father and he had frequent quarrels, and I was in daily expectation of an open breach between them, and of my father giving up his share of the property, and taking us to England. He was a backslider, in my grandfather's eyes. The tales of battle, plunder, and murder seemed to have taken the latter back to his own fighting days; and he was rather inclined to consider the generals as lukewarm, than to join in the general indignation at their atrocious conduct. "Even the sufferings of the Protestants did not seem to affect him. The Lord's work, he said, cannot be carried on without victims. It horrified me to hear him talk. If this was the religion of our fathers, I was fast coming to the conclusion that it was little better than no religion at all. "I think my father and mother saw it in the same light, and the breach between them and my grandfather daily widened. But I have not told you the worst, yet. A party of cavalry rode up the other day, and were about, as usual, to seize upon some cattle. My father was out, and my grandfather stepped forward and asked them 'how they could lay it to their consciences to plunder Protestants when, a mile or two away, there were Catholics lording it over the soil--Catholics whose husbands and sons were fighting in the ranks of the army of James Stuart?' "I was in the house with my mother, but we heard what was said; and she whispered to me to slip out behind, and find my father, and tell him what was being done. I made off; but before I had gone a quarter of a mile, I saw the soldiers riding off towards the castle, with my grandfather riding at their head. I was not long in finding my father, who at once called the men off from their work, and sent them off in all directions to raise the country; and in an hour two hundred men, armed with any weapon they could snatch up, were marching towards the castle, my father at their head. There were Catholics and Protestants among them--the latter had come at my father's bidding, the former of their own free will. "We hurried along, anxiously fearing every moment to see flames rise from the castle. Fortunately, the soldiers were too busy in plundering to notice our approach, and we pounced down upon them and seized them unawares. They were stripping the place of everything worth carrying away, before setting it on fire. We burst into the hall, and there was a sight which filled my father and myself with anger and shame. Your grandmother was standing erect, looking with dignity mingled with disdain at my grandfather; while your mother, holding your brother's hands, stood beside her. My grandfather was standing upon a chair; in his hand he held a Bible, and was pouring out a string of denouncing texts at the ladies, and was, at the moment we entered, comparing them to the wicked who had fallen into a net. "I don't think, Walter, his senses are quite right now. He is crazed with religion and hate, and I believe, at the time, he fancied himself in the meeting house. Anyhow, there he was, while two sergeants, who were supposed to be in command of the troop, were sitting on a table, with a flagon of wine between them, looking on with amusement. Their expression changed pretty quickly, when we rushed in. "It needed all my father's efforts to prevent the whole party being hung, so furious were all the rescuers at the outrage upon the good ladies of the castle. But my father pointed out to them that, although such a punishment was well deserved, it would do harm rather than good to the ladies. They had orders of protection from the lords justices; and he should proceed at once, with four or five witnesses, to lay the matter before the general at Dublin, and demand the punishment of the offenders. But if the party took the law into their own hands, and meted out the punishment the fellows deserved, the facts of the case would be lost sight of. There would be a cry of vengeance for the murder, as it would be called, of a party of soldiers, and it would serve as an excuse for harrying the whole district with fire and sword. "Having at last persuaded the angry tenants and peasantry to lay aside their project of vengeance, my father went to the soldiers, who, tied hand and foot, were expecting nothing short of death. He ordered all their pistols and ammunition to be taken away, and their bonds to be loosed; then told them that their escape had been a narrow one, and that, with great difficulty, he had persuaded those who had captured them while engaged in deeds of outrage and plunder to spare them; but that a complaint would at once be made before the military authorities, and the law would deal with them. Finally, they were permitted to mount and ride off, after having been closely examined to see that they were taking with them none of the plunder of the house. "Everything was then carefully replaced as they had found it; and my father at once rode off, with six of the leading tenants--three Protestants and three Catholics--and laid a complaint before the general. The latter professed himself much shocked, and lamented the impossibility of keeping strict discipline among the various regiments stationed in the towns. However, he went down with them at once to the barracks of the regiment, ordered them to be formed up, and asked my father if he could identify the culprits. "My father and those with him picked out fifteen, including the two sergeants, as having formed part of the body of plunderers; and the general had the whole tied up and flogged severely, then and there, and declared that, the next time an outrage upon persons who had received letters of protection came to his ears, he would shoot every man who was proved to have been concerned in it. He also gave orders that a well-conducted noncommissioned officer, and four men, should be sent at once to Davenant Castle, and should there take up their quarters as a guard against any party of marauders, with the strictest orders to cause no annoyance or inconvenience to the inhabitants of the castle. "I learned afterwards that Mr. Conyers, who had been interesting himself greatly on behalf of the ladies of the castle, is a great friend of the lords justices, and other members of the council, and is also acquainted with the general, which will account for the prompt measures taken to punish the marauders--a very rare and exceptional matter, I can tell you." "I am sure we are greatly indebted to your father and you, for so promptly taking measures to assist my mother," Walter said. "I have no doubt the castle would have been burned, as well as plundered, if it had not been for your rescue of them." "It is not worth thinking about, Walter. We are heavily your debtors, still, for the kindness of your father and yourself to me at Derry, and indeed on all other occasions. Besides, it was the least we could do, seeing that it was my grandfather's hatred of your family which brought the matter about." "What became of your grandfather," Walter asked, "when you interrupted his sermon?" "He fell down in a fit," John replied; "and perhaps it was the best thing he could do, for I don't know what my father and he would have said to each other, had it not been so. He was carried home, and he has not been the same man since. I don't think the subject was ever alluded to between my father and him; but I think that being balked, just at the moment when he thought he had obtained the object of his hopes and prayers for the last forty years, has almost broken his heart. "He goes about the house, scarce speaking a word, and seems to have lost almost all his energy. He has ceased to read the family prayers, and to hold forth morning and night. I do think he considers that the Lord has cheated him out of his lawful vengeance. It is awfully sad, Walter, though it is strange, to see such a travesty of religion as the tenets of my grandfather and some of the old men who, like him, represent the views of Cromwell's soldiers. "Their religion cannot be called true Christianity. It is the Judaism of the times when the Jews were among the most ignorant of peoples. To me it is most shocking, and I would infinitely rather be a Mohammedan than hold such a faith as theirs. I thank God that my father and mother have shaken off such a yoke, and brought me up according to the teaching of the New Testament, rather than that of the Old." By this time the waggons, with the exception of those under John Whitefoot's charge, had been collected in a mass, and fire had been applied to them. They were now a pile of flame. A few of the best and fastest looking of the horses were set aside to be carried off by the troop. The rest were shot, as the great object of the raids was to deprive the English army of its means of transport. The troop then mounted. Captain Davenant and Walter took a hearty farewell of John, and intrusted him with hastily-written letters for home; and as the smoke of the burning train would soon bring down any parties of the enemy who happened to be in the neighbourhood, the troop then rode off at full speed, and arrived safely at Athlone without meeting with any further adventures. After the fall of the city, Ginckle remained inactive some time, but, finding that his proclamation had no effect in inducing the Irish to lay down their arms, he reluctantly prepared to advance against them. In the interval, he occupied himself in repairing the western wall of the city, and, as he had been joined by several regiments sent out to reinforce him, he resumed his advance with a force larger than that with which he had commenced the siege of Athlone. Before starting, he issued the most peremptory orders against a repetition of the acts which had so disgraced his army, and had done so much harm to the cause by banding the whole peasantry against them. Saint Ruth chose his position with great skill. His camp extended more than two miles, along a range of hills called the heights of Kilcomeden. His right was protected by a rivulet, and by hills and marshes. On his left was a deep glen. Beyond this, along his whole front, a vast bog extended, in most places impassable for horse or foot. On the borders of the bog, on the left, stood the ruins of the little castle of Aughrim, occupying the only spot of firm ground which led to the camp. To pass the bog at this point, it was necessary to go close by the castle wall, where there was a broken path only wide enough for two men to pass abreast. The passage on the right of the bog was more open, but it was marshy and unsafe. This position was much stronger than that which the Irish had held at the battle of the Boyne, and whereas, on that occasion, they had been very inferior in numbers to their assailants, they were now superior by some regiments in number. In the point of artillery the English had here, as at the Boyne, an overwhelming superiority. Ginckle moved forward slowly and with caution, halting on the river Suck until he had been joined by every available soldier in Ireland. On the morning of the 12th of July, the British army halted on the edge of the bog, that, like a great belt, encircled the Irish within it. The morning was foggy, and the mist did not clear off until towards noon. The Irish prepared for battle by having divine service performed at the head of their regiments, and Dr. Stafford, chaplain to the royal regiment of foot, and some other priests, passed through the ranks, urging upon the men their duty and obligation, as soldiers and Irishmen, to make every effort they could to rescue their country from the oppression of the Prince of Orange, and his army of foreigners. Ginckle, on his part, as at Athlone, distributed money among the troops, and promised them the plunder of the enemy's camp. As the day cleared up, the British army was put in motion, and a strong column advanced against the enemy's right, where stood the house and grounds of Urachree, occupied by some Irish horse. A strong detachment of Danish cavalry headed the British column. They moved forward boldly, quickening their pace as they approached the Irish; but, on the latter charging them at full gallop, they wheeled about and rode off at once in disorder. Ginckle immediately ordered two hundred of Cunningham's dragoons, who were considered the best cavalry in the army, to advance and drive back the Irish horse. The dragoons advanced at a trot, but, seeing that the Irish quietly awaited their coming, they halted behind a hedge and awaited the arrival of the infantry. When these came up, the cavalry again moved forward. The Irish horse now fell back on a little hill in their rear, where a body of infantry were posted. They then faced to the front and charged, and broke the English dragoons, who retreated, as the Danes had done, in confusion. Eppinger's dragoons were ordered up to support Cunningham's, but the Irish horse had also received reinforcements before they arrived, and, after a fierce fight, the two English regiments were routed and driven off the field. Ginckle rallied them, added Lord Portland's horse to their numbers, and again sent them against the Irish. These, however, had fallen back from Urachree, and had taken up a new position upon the rivulet behind it, in front of the solid ground by which, alone, the right wing of the Irish army could be approached. Here they remained, waiting the onset of the British cavalry; but these, perceiving that the ground was becoming more and more difficult, soon came to a halt, and then, wheeling about, fell back upon the infantry. Seeing the successful stand which was made, by a small body of Irish horse, to the advance of the left wing, and that the spirit with which his troops were behaving was greatly inferior to that of the Irish, Ginckle called a council of war. Opinions were greatly at variance. It was now nearly four o'clock, and it was, at first, decided to postpone the battle till the morning, and a messenger was sent to the baggage column in the rear to bring up the tents. But other counsels finally prevailed. The order for the tents was countermanded, and, at half-past four, the British infantry were ordered to advance. They pressed forward, in solid masses, across the ground where the cavalry fight had taken place, and the Irish horse fell back behind their infantry, who were posted behind the substantial hedges which intersected the ground beyond the rivulet. A heavy musketry fire was opened upon the British infantry as they advanced, but they pressed forward, in unbroken order, till they reached the hedges. These were long and obstinately contested. The Irish had cut openings through the hedges by which they could retire, and, as they fell back from hedge to hedge, the advancing British were received by a fire from hedges on both flanks, as well as from the front. As the British poured regiment after regiment to the attack, Saint Ruth moved some bodies of horse and foot, from his left, to the support of his right wing. This movement had been foreseen by Ginckle, who now gave orders for several battalions of infantry to cross the bog, and attack the Irish centre. At this point there was a path across the bog, or rather a place where the mud and water were not so deep as at other points, and where it was possible for it to be forded. Ginckle had found a peasant, who, for a large sum of money, disclosed the passage. It traversed the bog at its narrowest point, the hill of Kilcomeden here running out a shoulder far into it. Four regiments entered the morass, with orders to cross it, and make their way to the nearest hedges on the sloping ground, where they were to post themselves till the cavalry, who were to attempt the passage by Aughrim Castle, could come round to their support. The first part of the passage was unopposed, but the difficulty of passing was great, for the men were frequently up to their waists in mud, too soft to afford any firm footing, but solid enough to render it extremely difficult for the feet to be disengaged from it. At length, as they approached firmer ground, the Irish infantry advanced towards the edge of the bog, and received them with a steady fire. The English, although suffering heavily, pressed forward without firing a shot, till the ground became solid under their feet, when the Irish withdrew, and, as upon the right, took post behind the hedges which everywhere intersected the slopes. The English, seeing the Irish retire, pressed forward, and another fierce contest raged in the inclosures; the Irish, according to their preconceived plan, falling gradually back. The British, in their ardour, forgot their orders to halt at the first hedge, and continued to press forward, until the constantly increasing numbers of the enemy recalled to their leaders the danger of the position. Before them were the heights of Kilcomeden, with a strong force drawn up to receive them, while on both flanks the enemy were crowding down, to intercept their retreat. Colonel Earl, who was the senior officer, looked anxiously towards the right, from which quarter he expected the British cavalry to arrive to his assistance; but no sound reached him from that quarter; while on the left the sound of the conflict, instead of advancing, appeared to recede, as if the British column was being forced back. Advancing before his own regiment, he called upon the soldiers to stand firm, for retreat would be destruction, and the only hope was to maintain their position till assistance arrived. When the Irish saw that the enemy had halted, and could not be tempted to advance further, they poured down to the attack through the passages in the hedges. The British might have defended these hedges, as the Irish had done, but the soldiers saw that they would be taken in the flank and rear, and, observing a large body of cavalry ascending the hill, they were seized with a panic. On the first shock of the Irish infantry, the four regiments broke and fled. They were hotly pursued, and slaughtered in great numbers, the Irish cavalry pouring through the openings in the hedges which had been prepared for them. At length, the fugitives reached the edge of the bog, where they gathered in a confused mass; which the officers, in vain, attempted to form into order. The cavalry charged down upon them, broke and scattered them, and drove them into the morass, followed by the Irish infantry, who were better acquainted with the ground, and more accustomed to traversing bogs. The soldiers were driven into the deepest and most difficult portion of the morass, and a great slaughter took place. The British artillery were planted on the edge of the morass, but so mingled were the two parties that they were unable to fire. Great numbers of the English were killed. Colonels Earl and Herbert, with many officers and men, were taken prisoners, and the remnant of the British were driven completely across the bog, to the shelter of their own cannon. While this was passing in the centre, another division of Ginckle's army, consisting of English and French infantry, had crossed the bog by a passage more to the right. They also had met with no opposition in passing, and it was only when they reached the hedges, on the firm ground, that the Irish showed themselves, fired, and retreated. This division, more cautious than that of Earl, could not be tempted to pursue, but contented themselves with maintaining their ground under a heavy fire, awaiting anxiously the arrival of the British horse. They could see, however, no sign of them, but could perceive the Irish cavalry descending in large masses, preparing to charge, while the infantry were forming for an advance. So far the Irish had been successful at every point. They had repulsed every attack made by the British left; had crushed the brigade, composed of the flower of the British infantry, which had assaulted the centre; and were now preparing to destroy the division which stood, unsupported, on their side of the bog. At this moment, a tumult was heard on the left wing of the Irish, the direction from which the British division expected relief, and the Irish, aware of the importance of the pass of Aughrim, suspended their attack to await the events there. Saint Ruth had directed the operations of the battle with as much skill as he had prepared for the assault. He had taken up his position on a point of the hill whence he had a complete view of the whole field of battle, and had moved his troops, with calmness and judgment, to meet each of the attacks made upon them; and when he saw the destruction of the English regiment in the centre, he exclaimed, in the full confidence of victory, "Now I will drive the English to the walls of Dublin!" There was, indeed, but one hope, on the part of the English, of retrieving the day; namely, the success of the attempt to force the passage at Aughrim. But two horsemen abreast could pass under the castle walls. Saint Ruth was aware of the passage, but thought it impassable for cavalry. It might easily have been made so, by cutting a deep gap across it; but here, as at Athlone, his overconfidence proved his destruction. He had, however, taken the precaution to erect a battery commanding the passage, and had placed some battalions of infantry there. General Talmash, who commanded the English cavalry, knew that the battle was lost, unless he could succeed at this point; and, at the head of his command, he led the way along the pass, which was not only narrow, but broken and encumbered with the ruins of the castle wall. Saint Ruth beheld the attempt of the cavalry with astonishment, and, with the remark: "They are brave fellows, it is a pity they should be sacrificed," sent orders for the Irish horse to move forward and prepare to charge them; and moved down the hill at the head of his officers to the battery. There is no doubt as to what the result would have been, had the Irish horse charged. They were greatly superior in number, and the English cavalry who had got across the passage were still in confusion, and were suffering from the fire of the battery, and, indeed, even when in equal numbers, William's cavalry had never withstood the charge of the Irish. It seemed that nothing could avert the defeat of the body on which Ginckle's last hope rested. But at this moment one of those events, by which Providence overrules the calculations of man, occurred. A cannonball struck Saint Ruth, as he stood in the middle of the battery and killed him instantly. The occurrence paralysed the Irish army. Sarsfield was away, there was no one to give orders, the news that some extraordinary calamity had happened spread rapidly, the men in the battery ceased firing, the cavalry, receiving no orders to charge, remained immovable. Talmash took advantage of the pause to get the rest of his cavalry across the passage, and then, with his whole force, moved towards the centre. As he approached, the idea that the unknown calamity, of which they had heard, was that the British had defeated their own left, spread among the Irish, and they began to fall back. The British column on the edge of the bog advanced, Ginckle pushed several fresh battalions across the morass in the centre, and the Irish infantry fell back, disputing every inch of the ground. The cavalry were still without orders, for strangely enough, no one assumed the command on the death of Saint Ruth. As night came on, the retreat of the Irish infantry became a rout, but the cavalry halted on the summit of Kilcomeden, and covered the retreat. The extraordinary circumstance, of the Irish army being left without orders after the death of Saint Ruth, has never been explained. The command should have devolved upon Sarsfield, but none of the accounts of the battle speak of him as being present. He had certainly not been consulted by Saint Ruth, and had not been present at the council of war before the battle; for the bad feeling, which had existed between him and Saint Ruth since that general arrived, had broken out into open dispute since the fall of Athlone. But it is inexplicable that there should have been no second in command, that no one should have come forward to give orders after the death of the general, that a victorious army should have been left, as a flock of sheep, without a shepherd. Up to the moment of the death of Saint Ruth, the loss of the British had been very severe, as they had more than two thousand men killed and wounded, while that of the Irish was trifling. But in the subsequent struggle the Irish, fighting each man for himself, without order or object, were slaughtered in vast numbers, their loss being estimated by the British writers at seven thousand men, a number which points to wholesale slaughter, rather than to the loss which could have been inflicted upon a brave army during little over an hour of daylight. But, crushing as the defeat of the Irish had been, the victory was far from inspiring William or his army with the confidence they had felt at the outset of the war. Here, as at Athlone, it was almost a miracle which had saved the English from a terrible disaster. The Irish had proved themselves fully a match for the best soldiers that William could send against them, and, although their infantry had suffered terribly in the rout, their ranks would be speedily filled up again; while the cavalry, the arm in which the Irish had uniformly proved their superiority, had moved away from the field of battle intact and unbroken. Athlone and Aughrim therefore rendered William and his general more anxious than ever to bring the struggle to an end, not by the force of arms, but by offering every concession to the Irish. The imminence of the peril had cowed even the party of confiscation, and they offered no opposition to the issue, by Ginckle, of proclamations renewing the offers of William. Ginckle himself moved forward, immediately after the battle, and granted the most liberal terms to the garrisons of the various small posts which he came upon. On arriving before Galway, he permitted that town and garrison to surrender on the terms of a pardon for all, security of property and estate, freedom of religious worship, and permission for the garrison to march away to Limerick, with drums beating and colours flying, the British furnishing horses for the transport of their cannon and baggage.	{ "id": "18356" }
15	: A Fortunate Recognition.	After the capitulation of Galway, Ginckle moved towards Limerick. King William, who was absent on the Continent, was most anxious for the aid of the army warring in Ireland, and the queen and her advisers, considering that the war was now virtually over, ordered transports to Ireland to take on board ten thousand men; but Ginckle was allowed a month's delay. He himself was by no means sanguine as to his position. The Irish army was still as numerous as the British, and they were not discouraged by their defeat at Aughrim, where they considered, and rightly, that victory had only been snatched from their grasp by an accident. Ginckle relied rather upon concession than force. The Irish were divided into two parties, one of which earnestly desired peace, if they could obtain fair terms, while the other insisted that the British could not be trusted to keep any terms they might make. Sarsfield was at the head of the war party, and succeeded, for the present, in preventing any arrangement. Ginckle advanced slowly, for he had to march through a waste and desolate country. Sarsfield, with his cavalry, hovered round him, and intercepted his communications, and he was so short of draught horses that it was only by forcing the gentry of Dublin to give up their carriage horses, for the use of the army, that he was enabled to move forward. It was not until the end of August that he sat down with his siege train in front of Limerick, and prepared for the siege. For the moment, the party in favour of peace among the Irish had been silenced by the news that twenty large ships of war, with a great number of transport and store ships, were being pushed forward at Brest and other French ports to come to their assistance. Ginckle occupied the same ground which William's army had taken up in the first siege, but directed his attacks chiefly upon the English town. As before, the Irish communication was open with the county of Clare, and the seventeen regiments of Irish horse were encamped on the Clare side of the river. Ginckle pushed on his works with great vigour, and the duty in the trenches was so severe, that the cavalry were compelled to take their turn with the infantry; but, notwithstanding that the siege artillery was much more powerful than that which William had at his disposal, but little progress was made. The town was set on fire several times; but the flames were speedily extinguished, and, as the inhabitants had all left the city and erected tents on the Clare side, under the protection of their cavalry, little harm was done to them. While the siege was going on, a number of desultory engagements took place, in different parts of the country, between the Protestant militia which had been lately raised, and the bands of rapparees, with varying success. The season was getting late. Ginckle was again becoming straitened for provisions, for the proclamations which he issued failed to inspire the peasantry with any confidence. He now erected a battery, of thirty-five guns, against King's Island; and, after an incessant cannonade of some days, a breach was effected in the wall between the abbey and Ballsbridge. Preparations were made for crossing the arm of the Shannon and assaulting the breach; but the works constructed for crossing the river were repeatedly destroyed by the Irish, and the idea of assault upon the breach was, at length, abandoned. So desperate did Ginckle now think his position, that he issued orders for the repair of the fortifications of Kilmallock, intending to raise the siege and establish his winter quarters there; but he postponed taking this step for a few days, for to do so would be to bring almost certain disaster upon his army. The French fleet was expected to arrive shortly, and the Irish, reinforced with men, arms, and supplies of every kind, would probably resume the offensive during the winter, and he would find himself cut off from all supplies and assistance. He determined, therefore, to make one more effort before retiring. He had, throughout the siege, been in communication with several Irish officers of high rank, and especially with General Clifford, who commanded the cavalry posted on the river opposite to his camp. These officers were as desirous as he was of bringing the war to an end, for they foresaw that if, after the arrival of the French, they succeeded in driving the English out of the country, Ireland would simply become a dependency of France, and they preferred the English connection to this. Ginckle determined to try, again, the same feint which had succeeded at Athlone. The workmen were kept busy repairing the works at Kilmallock, and preparing that place for the reception of the army. The greater portion of the baggage, and a regiment of Danes, were sent forward to that town. The batteries ceased firing, and the cannon were dismounted at several points, and the Irish were persuaded that the siege was about to be abandoned. Meanwhile, Ginckle was busy collecting boats, and preparing a bridge across to a small island, which lay not far from the Clare side of the river. On a dark night, the boats were brought up and the bridge constructed, and, led by six hundred grenadiers, a strong force of infantry, cavalry, and artillery crossed to the island, and then waded through the shallow water beyond to the mainland. A few men, posted on the island, carried the news to Clifford, but he gave no orders to the four regiments of cavalry and two of infantry under his command, nor did he send any notice to the camp. Some of the infantry and cavalry, however, ran without orders to the bank, and kept the grenadiers in check until the British cavalry had crossed, and compelled them to fall back. The British cavalry then dashed forward to the Irish cavalry camp, which they took completely by surprise. Panic stricken at this unexpected attack, the soldiers and the citizens in the town camp fled in all directions, and, great numbers rushing to Thomond Bridge, entered the city by that narrow approach. Had Ginckle at once pushed forward, he would have captured almost the whole of the Irish officials and civilians on the Clare side of the river; but, fearing an ambuscade, he halted his troops before advancing to the Irish camp, and this gave time for most of them to escape. Being afraid that the garrison would sally out from the town, and attack his lines on the other side of the river, he recrossed the Shannon with his troops, carrying with them a crowd of civilians, among them a number of persons of rank, and officials with the records and public treasure. The confusion and surprise in the town were so great that the Irish generals took no steps whatever, either to hinder his passage back across the river, or to attack either portion of his divided army. They knew that treachery must have been at work, to have enabled the enemy to surprise the camp, and, as they could not tell how far that treachery extended, they abstained from all action. Captain Davenant's troop had shared in the disaster inflicted by the night attack upon the cavalry camp. All were asleep when the English cavalry burst upon them. Taken utterly by surprise, and ignorant as to the strength of the force by which they were attacked, there was no thought of resistance. Officers and men leapt from the piles of rushes, which served as beds, and rushed to their horses. The English troopers were cutting and hewing in all directions, and, cutting the picket ropes, each man sprang on his horse and rode for his life. Captain Davenant had, at first, shouted to his men to keep steady; but his words were lost in the din which prevailed, and, seeing that nothing was to be done, he said to Walter: "It is all over, Walter. We must ride for it, like the rest." By morning, the Irish cavalry was scattered all over the country, and it was not for two or three days that they again assembled in regiments, presenting a sorry sight, the greater part having lost saddles and accoutrements of every kind. A few troops, composed of men who had been fortunate enough to have left their horses saddled when night came on, were sent back to Limerick. The rest drew off towards Ennis, and encamped there until they could procure saddles and accoutrements to take the field again. In Captain Davenant's troop there were but six men who had saved their saddles; and, as it would have been useless to send so small a detachment to Limerick, these remained with the troop, and were, at Walter's request, placed entirely at his disposal, in order that with them he might make scouting expeditions in the enemy's rear. He had permission to consider himself entirely on detached service, and to join any body of rapparees he might choose; but this Walter did not care about doing, for he had a horror of the savage acts which were perpetrated by the irregular forces on both sides, and determined to confine himself to watching the roads, bringing in news of any convoys which might be traversing the country, and cutting off messengers going or returning with despatches. The service was one of no great danger, for parties of peasants were on the watch, night and day; and, the instant any movement was observed, they started off at full speed to warn all the inhabitants of the surrounding villages to drive away their cattle, and carry off their effects into the hills or into the heart of some neighbouring bog, where the cavalry would not venture to penetrate. One day when, with his little band, he was halting at a village, some ten miles in rear of the camp, a peasant ran in. "A party of their horse have just seized some carts laden with potatoes at Kilcowan, and are driving them off. The boys are mustering to attack them on their way back." "It is too bad," Walter exclaimed. "Only three days ago, Ginckle issued another proclamation guaranteeing that no provisions, or other goods, should be taken by his soldiers without payment. "To horse, lads! We will ride out and give the peasants a helping hand, if they really mean to attack the enemy." Kilcowan was two miles away and, having learned from the peasant that the people intended to attack at a point where the road passed between two hills, a mile and a half beyond the village, he galloped on at full speed. He arrived, however, too late to take any part in the fight. The peasants had rushed suddenly down the hillsides, armed with scythes and pikes, upon the convoy as it passed below them. Several of the cavalry had been killed, and the rest were riding off, when Walter with his troopers dashed up. They continued the pursuit for a mile, cutting off a few stragglers, less well mounted than the rest, and then returned to Kilcowan, where the peasants had just arrived in triumph with the rescued carts of potatoes. "What are you going to do?" he asked, when the excitement of the welcome, accorded by the women to the captors, had subsided a little. "You may expect a strong body to be sent out, tomorrow, to punish you for this." "It's the general's own proclamation, your honour. Didn't he say, himself, that his soldiers were not to stale anything, and that they would be severely punished if they did? And didn't he guarantee that we should be paid for everything? He could not blame us for what we have done, and he ought to hang the rest of those thieving villains, when they get back to him." "I wouldn't be too sure about it," Walter said. "He issued a good many proclamations before, but he has never kept the terms of one of them. If I were you, I would leave the village--man, woman, and child--for a few days, at any rate, and see how the Dutchman takes it." But the villagers could not be persuaded that the Dutch general would disapprove of what they had done, and Walter, finding his arguments of no avail, rode off with his men to the village they had left, an hour before; with the parting advice that, if they would not follow his counsel, they should, at any rate, place watchers that night on the roads towards Ginckle's camp, to bring them news of the approach of any body of the enemy's cavalry. But the villagers were too delighted with their day's work to pay much heed to Walter's warning, and, after a general jollification in honour of their victory, retired to rest, thoughtless of danger. It was getting dark when Walter reached the village where he had determined to stay for the night. He ordered the men to keep the saddles on their horses, and to hitch them to the doors of the cabins where they took up their quarters, in readiness for instant movement. He placed one mounted sentry at the entrance to the village, and another a quarter of a mile on the road towards Kilcowan. At nine o'clock, he heard the sound of a horse galloping up to the door, and ran out. It was the sentry at the end of the village. "Kilcowan is on fire, sir!" Walter looked in that direction, and saw a broad glare of light. "Ride out, and bring in the advanced sentry," he said, "as quick as possible." He called the other men out, and bade them mount; that done, they sat, ready to ride off on the return of their comrades. "Here they come, sir," one of the men said, "and I fancy the enemy are after them." Walter listened intently. He could hear a deep thundering noise, which was certainly made by the hoofs of more than two horses. "Face about, men, trot! Keep your horses well in hand, until the others come up, and then ride for it. "Ah, what is that!" As he spoke, there was a shout from the other end of the village, followed instantly by the trampling of horses. "They have surrounded us!" Walter exclaimed. "Shoulder to shoulder, lads, and cut your way through. It's our only chance. Charge!" And, placing himself at the head, he set spurs to his horse and dashed at the approaching enemy. There was a fierce shock. A horse and rider rolled over from the impetus of his charge, then he cut right and left; pistol shots rang out, and his horse fell beneath him, shot through the head, pinning his leg beneath it. The fall saved his life, for four or five troopers had surrounded him, and in another moment he would have been cut down. For a time, he ran great risk of being trampled upon, in the confusion which followed. Then some of the troopers dismounted, he was dragged from beneath his horse, and found himself a prisoner. He was placed in the centre of the troop, the only captive taken, for two of the six men had got safe away in the darkness and confusion, the other four had fallen. The English, as he afterwards learned, had, immediately they arrived at Kilcowan, inquired where the Irish cavalry, who had taken part in the afternoon's fight, were quartered, and on hearing that they were but two miles away, the officer in command had forced one of the peasants to act as guide, and to take a party round, by a detour, so as to enter at the other end of the village, just as another party rode in by the direct road. Walter was taken first to Kilcowan. There he found a party of twelve or fourteen peasants, surrounded by cavalry. The whole village was in flames. Several of the inhabitants had been cut down, as the cavalry entered. The rest, with the exception of those in the hands of the troops, had fled in the darkness. As soon as the detachment with Walter arrived, the whole body got into motion, and reached Ginckle's camp shortly before midnight. As the general had retired to sleep, they were placed in a tent, and four sentries posted round it, with orders to shoot anyone who showed his head outside. In the morning, they were ordered to come out, and found outside the general, with several of his officers. "So," Ginckle said, "you are the fellows who attacked my soldiers. I will teach you a lesson which shall be remembered all over Ireland. You shall be broken on the wheel." This sentence was heard unmoved by the peasants, who had not the least idea of what was meant by it; but Walter stepped forward: "It is not these men who are to blame, but your soldiers, general," he said. "Your own proclamation, issued three days ago, guaranteed that no private property should be interfered with, and that everything the troops required should be paid for. Your soldiers disobeyed your orders, and plundered these poor people, and they were just as much justified in defending themselves against them, as any householder is who resists a burglar." "You dare speak to me!" exclaimed Ginckle. "You shall share their fate. Every man of you shall be broken on the wheel." "General Ginckle," Walter said warmly, "hitherto, the foul excesses of your troops have brought disgrace upon them, rather than you; but, if this brutal order is carried out, your name will be held infamous, and you will stand next only to Cromwell in the curses which Irishmen will heap upon your memory." The Dutch general was almost convulsed with passion. "Take the dogs away," he shouted, "and let the sentence be carried out." Several English officers were standing near, and these looked at one another in astonishment and disgust. Two of them hurried away, to fetch some of the superior officers, and directly these heard of the orders that had been given, they proceeded to Ginckle's tent. "Can it be true," General Hamilton said, "that you have ordered some prisoners to be broken on the wheel?" "I have given those orders," Ginckle said angrily, "and I will not permit them to be questioned." "Pardon me," General Hamilton said firmly; "but they must be questioned. There is no such punishment as breaking on the wheel known to the English law, and I and my English comrades protest against such a sentence being carried out." "But I will have it so!" Ginckle exclaimed, his face purple with passion. "Then, sir," General Hamilton said, "I tell you that, in half an hour from the present time, I will march out from your camp, at the head of my division of British troops, and will return to Dublin; and, what is more, I will fight my way out of the camp if any opposition is offered, and will explain my conduct to the king and the British parliament. Enough disgrace has already been brought upon all connected with the army, by the doings of the foreign troops; but when it comes to the death by torture of prisoners, by the order of their general, it is time that every British officer should refuse to permit such foul disgrace to rest upon his name." There was a chorus of assent from the other English officers, while Ginckle's foreign officers gathered round him, and it looked for a moment as if swords would be drawn. Ginckle saw that he had gone too far, and felt that, not only would this quarrel, if pushed further, compel him to raise the siege and fall back upon Dublin, but it would entail upon him the displeasure of the king, still more certainly that of the English parliament. "There is no occasion for threats," he said, mastering his passion. "You tell me that such a punishment is contrary to English law. That is enough. I abandon it at once. The prisoners shall be hung and quartered. I presume that you have no objection to offer to that." "That, general, is a matter in your own competence, and for your own conscience," Hamilton said. "The men have simply, as I understand, defended their property against marauders, and they are, as I conceive, worthy of no punishment whatever. If you choose to sentence them to such a punishment, it is your sentence, not mine. I thought it was your policy to heal the breach between the two parties. It seems I was mistaken. Personally, I protest against the execution of the sentence, beyond that I am not called upon to go. An act of injustice or cruelty, performed by a general upon prisoners, would not justify a soldier in imperilling the success of the campaign by resisting the orders of his superior; therefore, my duty to the king renders me unable to act; but I solemnly protest, in my own name and that of the English officers under your command, against the sentence, which I consider unjust in the extreme." So saying, General Hamilton, with the English officers, left the general's tent. If they hoped that the protest would have the effect of preventing the barbarous sentence from being carried into execution, they were mistaken. The fact that, to carry out his first intention would have been absolutely unlawful, had caused Ginckle to abandon it, but this made him only the more obstinate in carrying the second into execution. The English officers stood talking, not far from his tent, in tones of indignation and disgust at the brutal sentence, and then walked towards their divisional camp. As they went, they saw a number of men standing round a tree. Some Hessian soldiers, with much brutal laughter, were reeving ropes over the arm of the tree, and, just as the officers came along, six struggling forms were drawn up high above the heads of the crowd. The party paused for a moment, and were about to pass on, their faces showing how deep was their horror at the scene, when one of them exclaimed: "There is an Irish officer, in uniform, among the prisoners! This cannot be suffered, Hamilton. The Irish have several of ours prisoners in the town, and they would rightly retaliate by hanging them on the battlements." General Hamilton and the others pressed forward. "Colonel Hanau," the general said to a Hessian officer, "you surely cannot be going to hang this young officer? The general can never have included him with the others?" "The general's orders were precise," the Hessian said coldly. "Twelve peasants and one officer were to be hung, and afterwards quartered." "It is monstrous!" General Hamilton exclaimed. "I will go back to the general, and obtain his order for the arrest of the execution." "You will be too late, sir," the Hessian said coldly. "I have my orders, and before you are half way to the general's camp, that prisoner will be swinging from that bough." "I order you to desist, sir, till I return," General Hamilton said. "As I do not happen to be in your division, General Hamilton, and as I have received my orders from the commander in chief, I decline altogether to take orders from you." Walter, who had resigned himself to his fate, stood watching the altercation with a renewed feeling of hope. This died out when the colonel spoke, and two of the troopers seized him, but at that moment his eye fell upon one of the English officers. "Colonel L'Estrange!" he exclaimed. The officer started, at hearing his name called out by the prisoner, but he did not recognize him. "I am Walter Davenant. You remember, sir, the wreck off Bray?" "Good heavens!" Colonel L'Estrange exclaimed, pressing forward. "It is the lad who saved my life, General Hamilton! "Gentlemen, this young officer saved my life at the risk of his own. I cannot and will not stand by and see him murdered." The Hessian colonel signed to four of his men, who seized Walter and dragged him towards the tree. Colonel L'Estrange drew his sword. "My men," he shouted, to some English soldiers who were mingled with the crowd of onlookers, which had rapidly increased during the dispute, "stand by me, and don't let this brave young officer be murdered." A score of soldiers pushed through the crowd, and ranged themselves by Colonel L'Estrange. He dashed forward, sword in hand, and in a moment Walter was torn from the grasp of the soldiers, and placed in the centre of his rescuers, who were now joined by General Hamilton and the other officers. Several men had run off at full speed, to the British camp, to bring up aid. The Hessian colonel called upon his men to seize the prisoner, and cut down all who interfered to prevent the general's orders being carried out. These hesitated before the resolute aspect of the English, but the crowd of foreign soldiers ranged themselves with them, and the attack was about to commence, when a number of English soldiers were seen running, musket in hand, from their camp. The Hessian colonel saw that to attempt to carry out his orders, now, would bring on something like a pitched battle, and he therefore waved his men back, saying to General Hamilton: "I have nothing to do now, sir, but to report to General Ginckle that I have been prevented, by force, from carrying his orders into effect." "That you will, of course, do," General Hamilton said coldly. "I shall be perfectly prepared to answer for my conduct." There was no goodwill between the English and foreign sections of Ginckle's army, and General Hamilton had some trouble in preventing the soldiers from attacking the Hessians, and in inducing them to retire to their camp. As soon as he arrived there, he ordered the drums to be beaten, and the whole division to get under arms. He then despatched an officer to General Ginckle, narrating the circumstances, and saying that the honour of the whole army was concerned in preventing an officer, fairly taken prisoner in war, and not while acting as a spy, from being injured; and that, indeed, policy as well as honour forbade such a course being taken, as there were several officers of rank in the hands of the Irish, who would naturally retaliate on them the execution of prisoners of war. He made a formal complaint against Colonel Hanau, for refusing to delay the execution until he could lay the matter before the general. As for his own conduct in the matter, he said he was perfectly prepared to defend it before any military court, but that court must be held in England, where he purposed to return at once, with the division his majesty had intrusted to his command. The Dutch general had, long before he received the letter, been informed of what had taken place, and had also learned that the English division had struck their tents, and were drawn up under arms. To allow them to depart would be to entail certain ruin upon the campaign, and he felt that it was more than probable that the course Hamilton and his officers had taken would be upheld by a military court in England, and that public opinion would condemn the execution of an officer, taken in fair fight. He therefore wrote a letter to General Hamilton, saying that he regretted to find that he had been acting under a misapprehension, for he had understood that the person claiming to be an Irish officer was in fact a spy, and that he had severely reprimanded Colonel Hanau for his refusal to delay the execution until the fact had been explained to him. Far from feeling in any way aggrieved that General Hamilton had interfered to prevent such a mistake from taking place, he felt much obliged to him for what he had done, as the execution of an Irish officer taken in war would, in every way, have been a most unfortunate circumstance. General Hamilton showed the letter to the colonels of the various regiments in the division, and these agreed that, as General Ginckle was evidently desirous that the matter should go no further, it would be as well to order the tents to be again pitched, and for the troops to resume their ordinary duties. "My dear Walter," Colonel L'Estrange said, "I am happy, indeed, that we came up when we did. What should I have felt, if I had afterwards learned that you, who had saved my life, had been murdered here, for your execution would have been neither more nor less than murder, as was that of the twelve poor fellows who were taken at Kilcowan--a brutal murder! They were perfectly justified in defending their property, and the idea of quartering them, as well as hanging them, just as if they were traitors of the worst dye, is nothing short of monstrous. "I only came out here with my regiment a month since, but I am heartily sick with what I see going on. It was terrible to see the ruined villages on the road from Dublin. I have seen fighting on the Continent, but nothing to equal the wholesale brutality with which the war is conducted here. How God can continue to give success, to an army which behaves as this one has done, is altogether beyond me. Of one thing I am resolved, whether we take Limerick or not--and I own I see but small chance of it--I shall exchange, if possible, into a regiment serving in Flanders. If not, I shall resign my commission. "And now, how is your father? I rode out from Dublin to see your mother, and was very glad to find her, and old Mrs. Davenant, well. I was glad, too, to find that, owing to the influence of Mr. Conyers, they had not been troubled; and I was fortunately able, myself, to bring some influence to bear upon the council, who seem to be bent upon squeezing the last drop of blood from the Irish veins. "But the men are falling in, and I must put myself at the head of the regiment. I will hand you over to the care of an officer, and, if we march out, you will, of course, go with us." When the men were again dismissed, Colonel L'Estrange rejoined Walter. "Ginckle has thought better of it," he said. "I fancied he would not venture to push matters further, for the loss of the one division he can really rely upon would be fatal to all his hope of success to the campaign. Ginckle is a passionate man, but he is not a fool, and he must have seen that, if the matter had been laid before the king, his conduct would not have been approved. I don't say that ours is right, in a military sense, but I am sure that public opinion would have approved of it. The tales that have been circulated, of the doings of the army over here since the commencement of the war, have already roused a very strong feeling of irritation throughout the country." Colonel L'Estrange now took Walter to General Hamilton's tent, and, after formally introducing him, he told the story of the wreck, and of his rescue by Walter from certain death. "What do you mean to do with him, L'Estrange?" General Hamilton asked. "My intention is, unless you see any objection to it, to pass him through the lines this evening. I will provide him with a good horse, and see him well away. After what has happened Ginckle will, I should say, feel obliged for our thus rendering him a service by getting rid of his prisoner. There are not likely to be any questions asked or remarks made afterwards. I am not without influence at court, and there is a very strong section, who are bitterly opposed to Dutchmen being placed in every post in the king's gift, and there would be no difficulty in getting up such a hostile feeling against Ginckle, in relation to this affair, that it would cost him his command." "Yes," the general agreed. "Marlborough would be only too glad to take the matter up, and as Ginckle must be pretty well aware that his want of success here must have already made his position precarious, I do not think he will trouble himself to ask any questions about the prisoner; and, certainly, William will not thank him for being the means, by his unjust and arbitrary conduct, of causing a split between the English and his foreign troops. I should like to put all their heads into one noose, and I should feel no compunction in setting them swinging, for a greater set of rascals were never collected under the sun. I must say that the contrast between our army and the Irish is very great, and that, although many bloody deeds are performed by the rapparees, there has never been a single complaint brought against the Irish troops. "Anyhow, Mr. Davenant, I think you cannot do better than fall in with Colonel L'Estrange's plan. There will be no difficulty in getting out, and, indeed, I will send a troop of cavalry to see you well beyond our lines." Walter spent the rest of the day with Colonel L'Estrange, and told him all that had taken place since they had last met. "It is difficult to believe that it is but three years ago," he said, when he had finished. "No, we judge the flight of time by the incidents we crowd into it. The most uneventful days pass the most unheeded. Now to me, it seems but yesterday that I stood on the deck of the ship, and knew that she was sure to go to pieces, and that the chance of anyone reaching that rocky coast alive were small, indeed; when I saw what seemed little more than a black speck approaching, and you and your fisher boy made your way over the wave. "By the way, how is he? Doing well, I hope?" "He might have done well, if he liked. The present that you left in my father's hands, to buy him a boat when he was old enough to start as a fisherman on his own account, would have made a man of him, but it is hidden somewhere in the thatch of his father's cottage. When my father first went to the war, he handed it over to Larry, as he could not say what might happen before his return. Larry was at first delighted with the thought that some day he should have a boat of his own, and a boat, too, larger than any on the shore; but when I accompanied my father, Larry insisted on going with me. " 'It will be time enough to buy a boat, when the war is over,' he said. "And as I was very glad to have him with me, and my father did not object, Larry had his way, and he has been with me ever since. He is enrolled in the troop now, and, when he thinks there is any chance of fighting, he takes his place in the ranks, but at other times he acts as my servant." "Tell him I have not forgotten him," Colonel L'Estrange said. "While you have been doing so much, I have had a quiet time of it. I could have got a regiment at once, had I cared for it, but I disliked the thought of fighting over here. It was too much like civil war. Six months ago, when things were going badly with us on the Continent, I asked to be employed, and was given a regiment they were just raising. I had got them into fair order, and was expecting to be ordered to embark for the Low Country at any moment, when the news came of Ginckle's heavy losses at Athlone and Aughrim, and the orders came for us to proceed to Bristol, and take ship there for Ireland. I half thought of throwing up my commission, for the news of the scandalous conduct of the foreign soldiers had stirred every English heart with disgust and indignation, but I thought that the struggle was nearly over. William was anxious for peace at any price, and would grant almost any terms to secure it; and, on the other hand, we knew that Louis was, at last, going to make a great effort. So that it was certain that either the Irish would make peace on fair terms before winter, or the French would land, and there would be an end of any prospect of conquering Ireland, until matters were settled on the Continent, and William could devote his whole strength to this business." "And which alternative do you think the most likely?" Walter asked. "The latter," Colonel L'Estrange said, gravely. "Frankly, Walter, the situation looks bad. There is, so far as I can see, no chance whatever of our taking Limerick, and in a fortnight ten thousand French troops will be landed. "Of course it is probable that, at the last moment, the Irish may conclude that they prefer to be under England rather than France, for that is what it comes to. I hope they will have the sense to choose England, and if what we hear be true, they can judge from the insolent arrogance of the French officers, when they are but a fraction of your force, what they would be when they regarded themselves as your masters. "William is ready to grant religious equality, and the security of persons and estates. I think the Irish will be very unwise to refuse. At the same time, they have suffered such villainous treatment, at the hands of William's soldiers, that I cannot blame them if they decide to throw in their lot with France." "I think," Walter said, "that, if they were but sure that all the promises would be kept, the greater part would be in favour of making peace at once. Nine out of ten of us are of English descent, and have only been driven to take up arms by the cruel oppression which we have suffered. Why, at present five-sixths of the soil of Ireland is in the hands of Protestants, our religion is persecuted, and for years we have been trampled on, and regarded as fair objects of robbery." "All that you say is true, Walter, and no one can regret it more than I do. Still, I do think that you would be worse off under France than under England. Louis would drain the island of its men to fill his army. He uses you only as a cat's paw in his struggle against England and Holland, and would not hesitate to turn you over to England again, did it at any time suit him to make peace on such terms; or to offer Ireland as an exchange for some piece of territory he coveted, beyond his frontier." "I know my father is very much of your opinion," Walter said, "and that he has no confidence whatever in the King of France, and considers that French interference is responsible for the want of success which has attended us. At any rate, there is scarcely one of us who does not hate the French, and certainly, if we had to choose between the two countries, we should choose England." When it became dark, a troop of cavalry mounted, and with Colonel L'Estrange and Walter in their midst, rode out of camp. They went for several miles, and then Colonel L'Estrange said: "We are now well outside the limit where you will be likely to meet any of our scouting parties. Two miles further along this road, you will come to the village of Mulroon. It has, like all the others, suffered heavily, but there are two or three houses still standing, and when I rode through, it a few days since, I saw an old man standing at the door of one of them, so you will be likely to get information as to the best road to the town, and perhaps a guide." "Thank you very heartily, Colonel L'Estrange. I know the village, for I rode through it only the day before I was captured, and if I can get no guide, I can make my own way round as soon as it is daylight." "You had better go on tonight, if you can, Walter. Some party of rascally plunderers might arrive here, or Ginckle may, for aught I know, have sent out parties of dragoons. At any rate, I would not stop here, but make your way on among the hills, even if you can only get a mile away, and have to sleep by the side of your horse. No one can say he is safe under a roof within twenty miles of Ginckle's army." There was a hearty leave taking between Colonel L'Estrange and Walter, and the latter then rode straight forward, while the troop faced about, and made their way back to camp. On arriving at the village, Walter, as soon as he succeeded in convincing the inhabitants of a cottage, in which he saw a light, that he was an Irish officer, found no difficulty in obtaining a guide, a boy of fourteen volunteering at once to conduct him to the ford, ten miles above Limerick. It was nearly twenty miles, by the byroads by which they travelled, and the morning was just breaking as they arrived there. Colonel L'Estrange had insisted on providing Walter with funds, and he was therefore able to reward his guide, who went his way, rejoicing, while Walter crossed the river and rode for the cavalry camp, where he was received with delight by his father and friends, who had believed him to have been killed in the skirmish, for such was the report of the troopers who had managed to make their escape. "I must not let you go on any more detached commands, Walter," his father said. "I do not say that you have been imprudent, or to blame; but this is the second time that you have been surprised by the enemy, and, as it is out of the question to expect that you can always have the good luck to get out of their hands when you are captured, as you have on the last two occasions, I shall keep you by me in future; for seriously, my boy, your absence has caused me terrible anxiety." When Walter's account of the barbarous sentence passed upon the peasants, whose only crime was that they had defended their property against marauders acting in defiance of the general's order, was known in camp, the most intense indignation prevailed, and this was heightened by the fact that a cavalry officer, taken in open fight, should have been sentenced to a similar fate. So great, indeed, was the fury of both officers and men, that had they been in any condition to take the field, nothing could have restrained them from mounting and riding, at once, to strike a blow in revenge for the murder and mutilation of the peasants.	{ "id": "18356" }
16	: Peace.	Ginckle's expedition across the Shannon, and his surprise of the Irish cavalry camp, successful as it had been, altered the position in no way. Several days passed, and then, after a council of war, it was determined to recross the bridge of boats, which remained undisturbed, to the Clare side, and try to force a way across Thomond Bridge. On the 22nd of September, all the cavalry of the army, ten regiments of infantry, and fourteen pieces of cannon made the passage without molestation, and marched towards the bridge, which was defended upon the Clare side by two strong towers. As the British advanced guard of infantry approached the bridge, it was charged by a body of Irish horse, broken, and driven back. A strong body of cavalry rode up to support the infantry; the Irish horse were reinforced, and a hot fight continued until, at about four o'clock in the afternoon, the whole force of British infantry came up, and the Irish retired upon the infantry posted in the works which covered the bridge. Near the gate were high grounds cut up by gravel pits. The Irish infantry were posted here, as well as in the forts; and the English, as they advanced, were assailed with a very heavy fire from these positions, and also from the guns on the town walls. In spite of the heavy loss they were suffering, the English pressed on with the greatest gallantry. Success was now almost a necessity, for, if defeated, but few of them would ever have been able to recross the river. Foot by foot they fought their way, pressed on past the outworks, and pushed back the Irish infantry, till the latter were gathered round the head of the bridge. The Irish generals had thought that Ginckle's movement was but a repetition of the previous raid, and the force that had been sent over to guard the head of the bridge was altogether insufficient to withstand the determined attack by Ginckle's force. Reinforcements were now sent across the bridge, but this only added to the confusion. Pressed back by the weight and power of the English attack, the Irish were beginning to retire across the bridge, when they met the reinforcements making their way over. The bridge was of great length, but extremely narrow, and a complete block took place. The English had pierced their way through the struggling mass at the head of the bridge, and pressed on the rear of the mass of fugitives, literally hewing their way through them, and the pressure became so great that the regiments crossing were carried back. The head of the British column was pushed forward by those behind, and could only advance by slaying those in front of them and throwing their bodies over the bridge; for the mass were wedged so tightly that movement had now become impossible, while the Irish, as they retreated, formed ramparts of the slain and impeded the advance of the enemy. While the struggle on the bridge was at its fiercest, the French officer who commanded at the drawbridge across the arch nearest to the city, fearing that the British would press in at the rear of the Irish, and that he might not then be able to raise the drawbridge, ordered this to be done at once--thereby cutting off the retreat of the soldiers still on the bridge. These jumped over the parapet into the river, and strove to reach the city wall by swimming. Some did so, but great numbers were drowned. This incident greatly increased the standing feud between the Irish and French, the former declaring that the latter not only never fought themselves, but were ready, at the first alarm, to sacrifice their allies in order to secure their own safety. The success of Ginckle's second raid had been complete, in so far that he had inflicted great slaughter upon the Irish infantry, and had gained a moral victory; but he was no nearer capturing the town. An attack across the long narrow bridge was not even to be thought of; and he again retired across the river. The Irish were disheartened. Sarsfield, though a dashing cavalry commander, appeared wholly incapable of handling large bodies of men. Ginckle had twice given him a great opportunity, but on neither occasion had he made the slightest effort to utilize it. On the first occasion, surprise and uncertainty might excuse inaction on the part of the army in Limerick, but there was no such excuse the second time. Their force outside the town gate was but a small one; it was certain that the English could not push across the bridge; and, as Ginckle had taken the best part of his army across, Sarsfield could have issued out with his whole force on the Limerick side, crushed the British force remaining there, and captured the camp and all its stores--in which case Ginckle's position would have been desperate. But not a movement was made to seize an opportunity which would have been patent to any military commander possessing genius and energy; nor, until it was too late, was any attempt made to reinforce the detachment which, on the other side of the bridge, was withstanding the attack of a vastly superior force. Ginckle, relying upon the moral effect of the blow he had just struck, renewed his negotiations. Some of the Irish leaders had already received bribes. Others were genuinely anxious that the war should cease, now that William was ready to grant terms which would secure the ends for which they had been fighting. Others, again, were animated by hostility to the French, and the fear that, if the expected reinforcements arrived and the English were driven out, Ireland would become a mere appanage of France. Sarsfield himself was, no doubt, swayed by his dislike to being again superseded in the command by the arrival of another French general. He was, too, influenced by the fear that the peace party might prevail, and that Clifford's act of treachery might be repeated, and the enemy be admitted into the city without any terms being arranged. The French officers, eager to return home, made no attempt to stem the course of events; and, on the evening of the day after the battle on the Clare side, the drums of the besieged beat a parley, and Generals Sarsfield and Waughup went out and had a conference with Ginckle. A cessation of arms was concluded for the night; and in the morning the truce was extended for three days, to allow the cavalry, who were now encamped near Ennis, to be communicated with. On the 25th, the principal noblemen and officers from the cavalry camp arrived, prisoners were exchanged, and hostages on both sides were given, until the terms of a treaty of peace could be adjusted. On the 27th, the Irish submitted their proposals to the English general, which were--that "all past offences should be pardoned; that the Catholics of the counties of Cork, Limerick, Kerry, Clare, Sligo, and Mayo be restored to the estates which they held previous to the war; freedom of worship to be allowed; Catholics to be capable of holding all employments, civil and military; the Irish army to be kept on foot, and those who were willing to serve to be received into the king's service; Catholics to be at liberty to reside in all cities and towns, and to have all rights of citizens; and that an act of parliament should be passed to confirm these conditions." These terms were agreed to, and were held to be applicable, not only to the garrison of Limerick, but to the whole of Ireland. Ginckle at once sent an express to Cork, to order the transports in that harbour to sail round to the Shannon, for the purpose of taking on board such part of the Irish army as might wish to be carried to France--this being one of the stipulations of the treaty. Sarsfield and most of his officers, and the priests, used their utmost efforts to persuade the soldiers to enter the French service, in preference to the English. Their exhortations were successful. Only about two thousand Irish joined the British army, four thousand laid down their arms and returned to their homes, and a considerable number deserted on their march down to Cork. The rest were shipped in transports to France, where they entered the service of that country. Two days after the treaty was signed, the French fleet, with ten thousand men and a great abundance of stores, arrived at the mouth of the Shannon. The Irish negotiators of the treaty have been greatly and deservedly blamed, inasmuch as, while they stipulated that the proprietors of the neighbouring counties should retain their estates, they abandoned those possessing property throughout the rest of Ireland to ruin and beggary. There was no excuse for this. They knew that the French fleet had sailed, and must have arrived in a few days, and that the English cause was becoming so desperate that Ginckle would not have resisted any terms they had laid down. This cruel and wholly unnecessary desertion of their friends has thrown a slur upon the memory of Sarsfield and the other leaders who conducted the negotiations. The officers and men who entered the service of France had bitter reason to repent their decision. Instead of being, as they expected, kept together in regiments, they were for the most part broken up and distributed throughout the French army. Louis was deeply enraged at the surrender, just as the expedition he had made such efforts to send for the conquest of Ireland was within a few hours' sail of its shores, and he treated the whole of the Irish and French who returned from Ireland as men who had acted the part of traitors. As soon as the terms of capitulation were arranged, Captain Davenant obtained papers of protection for all the men of his troop. He had formed them up on parade, and had put the question, whether they wished to return home or to enter the service of France. "I myself, and your officers, intend to return home," he said. "Of course, each of you is free to do as he chooses; but it appears to me a most foolish thing to leave your country forever, and exile yourself in the service of France, when you are free to return home. You know how little French promises have been kept during this war, and how little faith is to be placed on them in future." The men were unanimous in their decision to return to their homes, and, as soon as the protection papers were obtained, the troop disbanded, and all returned to their homes and occupations in and around Bray. It was a joyful meeting, when Captain Davenant and Walter returned to the castle. Mrs. Davenant had always shared her husband's opinion, that the chances of ultimate success were small, and of late even his mother had given up hope, and both were delighted that their anxieties were at last over, and husband and son restored to them in safety. There was an immense deal to tell on both sides, for it was months since any letter had passed between them. "We have everything to be thankful for," Mrs. Davenant said, when the stories on both sides had been told, "and it seems to me that it is, to no slight extent, due to Walter that we have passed so well through the last two troubled years. It was Jabez Whitefoot who first stood our friend, and who saved the castle from being burned, and his goodwill was earned by Walter's friendship with his son. Then Mr. Conyers stood between us and the council, who would certainly have confiscated everything, had it not been for him. And, although he always expressed himself as greatly indebted to you also, he said that, so far as he understood from his wife, it was to Walter's foresight and arrangement that his wife and daughter owed their rescue. "How was it that Walter was so forward in the matter, Fergus?" "Walter was perhaps more particularly interested in the matter than I was," Captain Davenant said, with a smile. "His thoughts were running in that direction." Walter coloured up, and Mrs. Davenant, who was looking at him with some surprise, at her husband's words, broke into a laugh. "You don't mean to say, Walter, that you have been falling in love, at your age?" "You forget, dear," Captain Davenant said, coming to Walter's rescue, "that Walter is no longer a boy. Three years of campaigning have made a man of him, and, I venture to think, an earnest and thoughtful one. He is, it is true, only nineteen, but he has seen as much, and gone through as much, as men double his age. He has, upon several occasions, evinced an amount of coolness and judgment in danger which has earned him the approbation even of General Sarsfield, a man not easily satisfied." "I don't mean to hurt your feelings, Walter," Mrs. Davenant said; "but of course, it is difficult for me, at first, to realize that while you have been away you have changed from a boy into a man." "I don't mind, mother dear," Walter said, "and you can laugh at me as much as you like." "And is there anything in what your father says?" Mrs. Davenant asked, as she passed her hand fondly over Walter's head, as he sat on a low stool beside her. "Yes, mother," he answered manfully. "I am engaged to Claire Conyers. I have her mother's consent, but what Mr. Conyers will think about it, I don't know. He must know long before this, for Mrs. Conyers said that she should tell him, as soon as he joined them in England." Mrs. Davenant leaned over, and kissed her son. "The Conyers are of good family," old Mrs. Davenant said, "although they did come over with Cromwell. I do not think that is any objection to a son of our house marrying into theirs." Captain Davenant laughed. "No objection at all, on our side, mother. Any objection is likely to be on the other side, not on the ground of family, but on that of property. Claire Conyers is one of the richest heiresses in Ireland, while Walter's inheritance can scarcely be termed extensive." Two months later, Captain Davenant received a letter from Mr. Conyers, saying that he had arrived with his wife and daughter at Dublin on the previous day, and should be glad to make his acquaintance, and that of his son. "My wife," he said, "has informed me of certain love passages, which have taken place between Claire and your son, and I shall be glad to talk to you concerning them." Captain Davenant and Walter at once rode over to Dublin, the latter full of delight, and yet with a considerable amount of trepidation as to the interview between his father and Mr. Conyers. His mind was, however, speedily put at rest, for upon entering, Mr. Conyers at once took him by the hand, and said: "I am glad, indeed, of the opportunity of thanking you, in person, for the inestimable service you rendered to my wife and daughter. I find, from my wife, that Claire has discovered a means of repaying you for your service, and as her happiness is, she tells me, dependent on my giving my consent to the plan, I tell you at once that I do so, very heartily. I think you had better wait for a while, say two or three years, but we need not settle that at present. "Come here, Claire." He placed the girl's hand in Walter's. "Take her," he said, "and make her happy." The next day, Mr. Conyers, with his wife and daughter, accompanied Captain Davenant and Walter back to Davenant Castle, where they stayed for some days. The Whitefoots did not long remain neighbours of the Davenants. Old Zephaniah had passed away, ere the peace was signed, and, soon after Captain Davenant returned, Jabez called at the castle. "We are going away," he said. "John has made up his mind to become a trader, in London, and Hannah and I would be lonely without him, and, moreover, we are both weary of our life here, and have far more than enough money laid by for our needs, and for giving John the means of entering some well-established firm, when the time shall come. As to the lands here, they are ours now; but the next turn of the wheel might give them back to you. Besides, we do not wish to be troubled with their care. I therefore intend to revert to the offer which you made me, when the Parliament restored the land to you. I have received a good offer for our house and farm, and this I have accepted. The rest of the estates I hand back to you, from whom they were taken by the sword. My wife wishes this, as well as myself. John is eager that it should be so. He will be glad that his friend should be heir to the estates of his ancestors." "But we could not accept such a generous offer," Captain Davenant exclaimed. "It is out of all reason." "That I know not, friend Davenant; but I know that I, and my wife and John, have so made up our minds, and we are of a race not given to change. The land would but be an incumbrance and a trouble to us. John would far rather make his path in life, as he chooses it, than live upon the rents of ill-gotten lands. You will receive your own again, and all parties will be satisfied." Nothing could alter the resolution Jabez and his wife and son had taken, and so the Davenant estates came back to their former possessors. Three years after the conclusion of peace, Walter became Claire Conyers' husband, and in time succeeded to the wide estates of Mr. Conyers, as well as those of the Davenants. Godfrey Davenant, on attaining the age of eighteen, obtained, through Colonel L'Estrange's interest, a commission in the English army, fought under Marlborough in the fierce campaign in Flanders, and fell at the battle of Oudenarde. Happily, during the lifetime of Walter and Claire Davenant, there was never any renewal of trouble in Ireland, and they lived to see their children and grandchildren grow up around them, in peace and happiness. John Whitefoot became, in time, one of the leading merchants of the city of London, and spent the greater of the fortune he gained in trade in works of charity and kindness. The friendship between him and Walter Davenant remained unchanged to the end of their lives. They occasionally paid each other visits, and, when a son of John Whitefoot married a daughter of Walter Davenant, they felt that this was a fitting termination of the old feud between the families.	{ "id": "18356" }
1	None	I was resident in this city during the year 1793. Many motives contributed to detain me, though departure was easy and commodious, and my friends were generally solicitous for me to go. It is not my purpose to enumerate these motives, or to dwell on my present concerns and transactions, but merely to compose a narrative of some incidents with which my situation made me acquainted. Returning one evening, somewhat later than usual, to my own house, my attention was attracted, just as I entered the porch, by the figure of a man reclining against the wall at a few paces distant. My sight was imperfectly assisted by a far-off lamp; but the posture in which he sat, the hour, and the place, immediately suggested the idea of one disabled by sickness. It was obvious to conclude that his disease was pestilential. This did not deter me from approaching and examining him more closely. He leaned his head against the wall; his eyes were shut, his hands clasped in each other, and his body seemed to be sustained in an upright position merely by the cellar-door against which he rested his left shoulder. The lethargy into which he was sunk seemed scarcely interrupted by my feeling his hand and his forehead. His throbbing temples and burning skin indicated a fever, and his form, already emaciated, seemed to prove that it had not been of short duration. There was only one circumstance that hindered me from forming an immediate determination in what manner this person should be treated. My family consisted of my wife and a young child. Our servant-maid had been seized, three days before, by the reigning malady, and, at her own request, had been conveyed to the hospital. We ourselves enjoyed good health, and were hopeful of escaping with our lives. Our measures for this end had been cautiously taken and carefully adhered to. They did not consist in avoiding the receptacles of infection, for my office required me to go daily into the midst of them; nor in filling the house with the exhalations of gunpowder, vinegar, or tar. They consisted in cleanliness, reasonable exercise, and wholesome diet. Custom had likewise blunted the edge of our apprehensions. To take this person into my house, and bestow upon him the requisite attendance, was the scheme that first occurred to me. In this, however, the advice of my wife was to govern me. I mentioned the incident to her. I pointed out the danger which was to be dreaded from such an inmate. I desired her to decide with caution, and mentioned my resolution to conform myself implicitly to her decision. Should we refuse to harbour him, we must not forget that there was a hospital to which he would, perhaps, consent to be carried, and where he would be accommodated in the best manner the times would admit. "Nay," said she, "talk not of hospitals. At least, let him have his choice. I have no fear about me, for my part, in a case where the injunctions of duty are so obvious. Let us take the poor, unfortunate wretch into our protection and care, and leave the consequences to Heaven." I expected and was pleased with this proposal. I returned to the sick man, and, on rousing him from his stupor, found him still in possession of his reason. With a candle near, I had an opportunity of viewing him more accurately. His garb was plain, careless, and denoted rusticity. His aspect was simple and ingenuous, and his decayed visage still retained traces of uncommon but manlike beauty. He had all the appearances of mere youth, unspoiled by luxury and uninured to misfortune. I scarcely ever beheld an object which laid so powerful and sudden a claim to my affection and succour. "You are sick," said I, in as cheerful a tone as I could assume. "Cold bricks and night-airs are comfortless attendants for one in your condition. Rise, I pray you, and come into the house. We will try to supply you with accommodations a little more suitable." At this address he fixed his languid eyes upon me. "What would you have?" said he. "I am very well as I am. While I breathe, which will not be long, I shall breathe with more freedom here than elsewhere. Let me alone--I am very well as I am." "Nay," said I, "this situation is unsuitable to a sick man. I only ask you to come into my house, and receive all the kindness that it is in our power to bestow. Pluck up courage, and I will answer for your recovery, provided you submit to directions, and do as we would have you. Rise, and come along with me. We will find you a physician and a nurse, and all we ask in return is good spirits and compliance." "Do you not know," he replied, "what my disease is? Why should you risk your safety for the sake of one whom your kindness cannot benefit, and who has nothing to give in return?" There was something in the style of this remark, that heightened my prepossession in his favour, and made me pursue my purpose with more zeal. "Let us try what we can do for you," I answered. "If we save your life, we shall have done you some service, and, as for recompense, we will look to that." It was with considerable difficulty that he was persuaded to accept our invitation. He was conducted to a chamber, and, the criticalness of his case requiring unusual attention, I spent the night at his bedside. My wife was encumbered with the care both of her infant and her family. The charming babe was in perfect health, but her mother's constitution was frail and delicate. We simplified the household duties as much as possible, but still these duties were considerably burdensome to one not used to the performance, and luxuriously educated. The addition of a sick man was likely to be productive of much fatigue. My engagements would not allow me to be always at home, and the state of my patient, and the remedies necessary to be prescribed, were attended with many noxious and disgustful circumstances. My fortune would not allow me to hire assistance. My wife, with a feeble frame and a mind shrinking, on ordinary occasions, from such offices, with fastidious scrupulousness, was to be his only or principal nurse. My neighbours were fervent in their well-meant zeal, and loud in their remonstrances on the imprudence and rashness of my conduct. They called me presumptuous and cruel in exposing my wife and child, as well as myself, to such imminent hazard, for the sake of one, too, who most probably was worthless, and whose disease had doubtless been, by negligence or mistreatment, rendered incurable. I did not turn a deaf ear to these censurers. I was aware of all the inconveniences and perils to which I thus spontaneously exposed myself. No one knew better the value of that woman whom I called mine, or set a higher price upon her life, her health, and her ease. The virulence and activity of this contagion, the dangerous condition of my patient, and the dubiousness of his character, were not forgotten by me; but still my conduct in this affair received my own entire approbation. All objections on the score of my friends were removed by her own willingness and even solicitude to undertake the province. I had more confidence than others in the vincibility of this disease, and in the success of those measures which we had used for our defence against it. But, whatever were the evils to accrue to us, we were sure of one thing: namely, that the consciousness of having neglected this unfortunate person would be a source of more unhappiness than could possibly redound from the attendance and care that he would claim. The more we saw of him, indeed, the more did we congratulate ourselves on our proceeding. His torments were acute and tedious; but, in the midst even of delirium, his heart seemed to overflow with gratitude, and to be actuated by no wish but to alleviate our toil and our danger. He made prodigious exertions to perform necessary offices for himself. He suppressed his feelings and struggled to maintain a cheerful tone and countenance, that he might prevent that anxiety which the sight of his sufferings produced in us. He was perpetually furnishing reasons why his nurse should leave him alone, and betrayed dissatisfaction whenever she entered his apartment. In a few days, there were reasons to conclude him out of danger; and, in a fortnight, nothing but exercise and nourishment were wanting to complete his restoration. Meanwhile nothing was obtained from him but general information, that his place of abode was Chester county, and that some momentous engagement induced him to hazard his safety by coming to the city in the height of the epidemic. He was far from being talkative. His silence seemed to be the joint result of modesty and unpleasing remembrances. His features were characterized by pathetic seriousness, and his deportment by a gravity very unusual at his age. According to his own representation, he was no more than eighteen years old, but the depth of his remarks indicated a much greater advance. His name was Arthur Mervyn. He described himself as having passed his life at the plough-tail and the threshing-floor; as being destitute of all scholastic instruction; and as being long since bereft of the affectionate regards of parents and kinsmen. When questioned as to the course of life which he meant to pursue upon his recovery, he professed himself without any precise object. He was willing to be guided by the advice of others, and by the lights which experience should furnish. The country was open to him, and he supposed that there was no part of it in which food could not be purchased by his labour. He was unqualified, by his education, for any liberal profession. His poverty was likewise an insuperable impediment. He could afford to spend no time in the acquisition of a trade. He must labour, not for future emolument, but for immediate subsistence. The only pursuit which his present circumstances would allow him to adopt was that which, he was inclined to believe, was likewise the most eligible. Without doubt his experience was slender, and it seemed absurd to pronounce concerning that of which he had no direct knowledge; but so it was, he could not outroot from his mind the persuasion that to plough, to sow, and to reap, were employments most befitting a reasonable creature, and from which the truest pleasure and the least pollution would flow. He contemplated no other scheme than to return, as soon as his health should permit, into the country, seek employment where it was to be had, and acquit himself in his engagements with fidelity and diligence. I pointed out to him various ways in which the city might furnish employment to one with his qualifications. He had said that he was somewhat accustomed to the pen. There were stations in which the possession of a legible hand was all that was requisite. He might add to this a knowledge of accounts, and thereby procure himself a post in some mercantile or public office. To this he objected, that experience had shown him unfit for the life of a penman. This had been his chief occupation for a little while, and he found it wholly incompatible with his health. He must not sacrifice the end for the means. Starving was a disease preferable to consumption. Besides, he laboured merely for the sake of living, and he lived merely for the sake of pleasure. If his tasks should enable him to live, but, at the same time, bereave him of all satisfaction, they inflicted injury, and were to be shunned as worse evils than death. I asked to what species of pleasure he alluded, with which the business of a clerk was inconsistent. He answered that he scarcely knew how to describe it. He read books when they came in his way. He had lighted upon few, and, perhaps, the pleasure they afforded him was owing to their fewness; yet he confessed that a mode of life which entirely forbade him to read was by no means to his taste. But this was trivial. He knew how to value the thoughts of other people, but he could not part with the privilege of observing and thinking for himself. He wanted business which would suffer at least nine-tenths of his attention to go free. If it afforded agreeable employment to that part of his attention which it applied to its own use, so much the better; but, if it did not, he should not repine. He should be content with a life whose pleasures were to its pains as nine are to one. He had tried the trade of a copyist, and in circumstances more favourable than it was likely he should ever again have an opportunity of trying it, and he had found that it did not fulfil the requisite conditions. Whereas the trade of ploughman was friendly to health, liberty, and pleasure. The pestilence, if it may so be called, was now declining. The health of my young friend allowed him to breathe the fresh air and to walk. A friend of mine, by name Wortley, who had spent two months from the city, and to whom, in the course of a familiar correspondence, I had mentioned the foregoing particulars, returned from his rural excursion. He was posting, on the evening of the day of his arrival, with a friendly expedition, to my house, when he overtook Mervyn going in the same direction. He was surprised to find him go before him into my dwelling, and to discover, which he speedily did, that this was the youth whom I had so frequently mentioned to him. I was present at their meeting. There was a strange mixture in the countenance of Wortley when they were presented to each other. His satisfaction was mingled with surprise, and his surprise with anger. Mervyn, in his turn, betrayed considerable embarrassment. Wortley's thoughts were too earnest on some topic to allow him to converse. He shortly made some excuse for taking leave, and, rising, addressed himself to the youth with a request that he would walk home with him. This invitation, delivered in a tone which left it doubtful whether a compliment or menace were meant, augmented Mervyn's confusion. He complied without speaking, and they went out together;--my wife and I were left to comment upon the scene. It could not fail to excite uneasiness. They were evidently no strangers to each other. The indignation that flashed from the eyes of Wortley, and the trembling consciousness of Mervyn, were unwelcome tokens. The former was my dearest friend, and venerable for his discernment and integrity. The latter appeared to have drawn upon himself the anger and disdain of this man. We already anticipated the shock which the discovery of his unworthiness would produce. In a half-hour Mervyn returned. His embarrassment had given place to dejection. He was always serious, but his features were now overcast by the deepest gloom. The anxiety which I felt would not allow me to hesitate long. "Arthur," said I, "something is the matter with you. Will you not disclose it to us? Perhaps you have brought yourself into some dilemma out of which we may help you to escape. Has any thing of an unpleasant nature passed between you and Wortley?" The youth did not readily answer. He seemed at a loss for a suitable reply. At length he said that something disagreeable had indeed passed between him and Wortley. He had had the misfortune to be connected with a man by whom Wortley conceived himself to be injured. He had borne no part in inflicting this injury, but had nevertheless been threatened with ill treatment if he did not make disclosures which, indeed, it was in his power to make, but which he was bound, by every sanction, to withhold. This disclosure would be of no benefit to Wortley. It would rather operate injuriously than otherwise; yet it was endeavoured to be wrested from him by the heaviest menaces. There he paused. We were naturally inquisitive as to the scope of these menaces; but Mervyn entreated us to forbear any further discussion of this topic. He foresaw the difficulties to which his silence would subject him. One of its most fearful consequences would be the loss of our good opinion. He knew not what he had to dread from the enmity of Wortley. Mr. Wortley's violence was not without excuse. It was his mishap to be exposed to suspicions which could only be obviated by breaking his faith. But, indeed, he knew not whether any degree of explicitness would confute the charges that were made against him; whether, by trampling on his sacred promise, he should not multiply his perils instead of lessening their number. A difficult part had been assigned to him; by much too difficult for one young, improvident, and inexperienced as he was. Sincerity, perhaps, was the best course. Perhaps, after having had an opportunity for deliberation, he should conclude to adopt it; meanwhile he entreated permission to retire to his chamber. He was unable to exclude from his mind ideas which yet could, with no propriety, at least at present, be made the theme of conversation. These words were accompanied with simplicity and pathos, and with tokens of unaffected distress. "Arthur," said I, "you are master of your actions and time in this house. Retire when you please; but you will naturally suppose us anxious to dispel this mystery. Whatever shall tend to obscure or malign your character will of course excite our solicitude. Wortley is not short-sighted or hasty to condemn. So great is my confidence in his integrity that I will not promise my esteem to one who has irrecoverably lost that of Wortley. I am not acquainted with your motives to concealment, or what it is you conceal; but take the word of one who possesses that experience which you complain of wanting, that sincerity is always safest." As soon as he had retired, my curiosity prompted me to pay an immediate visit to Wortley. I found him at home. He was no less desirous of an interview, and answered my inquiries with as much eagerness as they were made. "You know," said he, "my disastrous connection with Thomas Welbeck. You recollect his sudden disappearance last July, by which I was reduced to the brink of ruin. Nay, I am, even now, far from certain that I shall survive that event. I spoke to you about the youth who lived with him, and by what means that youth was discovered to have crossed the river in his company on the night of his departure. This is that very youth. "This will account for my emotion at meeting him at your house; I brought him out with me. His confusion sufficiently indicated his knowledge of transactions between Welbeck and me. I questioned him as to the fate of that man. To own the truth, I expected some well-digested lie; but he merely said that he had promised secrecy on that subject, and must therefore be excused from giving me any information. I asked him if he knew that his master, or accomplice, or whatever was his relation to him, absconded in my debt? He answered that he knew it well; but still pleaded a promise of inviolable secrecy as to his hiding-place. This conduct justly exasperated me, and I treated him with the severity which he deserved. I am half ashamed to confess the excesses of my passion; I even went so far as to strike him. He bore my insults with the utmost patience. No doubt the young villain is well instructed in his lesson. He knows that he may safely defy my power. From threats I descended to entreaties. I even endeavoured to wind the truth from him by artifice. I promised him a part of the debt if he would enable me to recover the whole. I offered him a considerable reward if he would merely afford me a clue by which I might trace him to his retreat; but all was insufficient. He merely put on an air of perplexity and shook his head in token of non-compliance." Such was my friend's account of this interview. His suspicions were unquestionably plausible; but I was disposed to put a more favourable construction on Mervyn's behaviour. I recollected the desolate and penniless condition in which I found him, and the uniform complacency and rectitude of his deportment for the period during which we had witnessed it. These ideas had considerable influence on my judgment, and indisposed me to follow the advice of my friend, which was to turn him forth from my doors that very night. My wife's prepossessions were still more powerful advocates of this youth. She would vouch, she said, before any tribunal, for his innocence; but she willingly concurred with me in allowing him the continuance of our friendship on no other condition than that of a disclosure of the truth. To entitle ourselves to this confidence we were willing to engage, in our turn, for the observance of secrecy, so far that no detriment should accrue from this disclosure to himself or his friend. Next morning, at breakfast, our guest appeared with a countenance less expressive of embarrassment than on the last evening. His attention was chiefly engaged by his own thoughts, and little was said till the breakfast was removed. I then reminded him of the incidents of the former day, and mentioned that the uneasiness which thence arose to us had rather been increased than diminished by time. "It is in your power, my young friend," continued I, "to add still more to this uneasiness, or to take it entirely away. I had no personal acquaintance with Thomas Welbeck. I have been informed by others that his character, for a certain period, was respectable, but that, at length, he contracted large debts, and, instead of paying them, absconded. You, it seems, lived with him. On the night of his departure you are known to have accompanied him across the river, and this, it seems, is the first of your reappearance on the stage. Welbeck's conduct was dishonest. He ought doubtless to be pursued to his asylum and be compelled to refund his winnings. You confess yourself to know his place of refuge, but urge a promise of secrecy. Know you not that to assist or connive at the escape of this man was wrong? To have promised to favour his concealment and impunity by silence was only an aggravation of this wrong. That, however, is past. Your youth, and circumstances, hitherto unexplained, may apologize for that misconduct; but it is certainly your duty to repair it to the utmost of your power. Think whether, by disclosing what you know, you will not repair it." "I have spent most of last night," said the youth, "in reflecting on this subject. I had come to a resolution, before you spoke, of confiding to you my simple tale. I perceive in what circumstances I am placed, and that I can keep my hold of your good opinion only by a candid deportment. I have indeed given a promise which it was wrong, or rather absurd, in another to exact, and in me to give; yet none but considerations of the highest importance would persuade me to break my promise. No injury will accrue from my disclosure to Welbeck. If there should, dishonest as he was, that would be a sufficient reason for my silence. Wortley will not, in any degree, be benefited by any communication that I can make. Whether I grant or withhold information, my conduct will have influence only on my own happiness, and that influence will justify me in granting it. "I received your protection when I was friendless and forlorn. You have a right to know whom it is that you protected. My own fate is connected with the fate of Welbeck, and that connection, together with the interest you are pleased to take in my concerns, because they are mine, will render a tale worthy of attention which will not be recommended by variety of facts or skill in the display of them. "Wortley, though passionate, and, with regard to me, unjust, may yet be a good man; but I have no desire to make him one of my auditors. You, sir, may, if you think proper, relate to him afterwards what particulars concerning Welbeck it may be of importance for him to know; but at present it will be well if your indulgence shall support me to the end of a tedious but humble tale." The eyes of my Eliza sparkled with delight at this proposal. She regarded this youth with a sisterly affection, and considered his candour, in this respect, as an unerring test of his rectitude. She was prepared to hear and to forgive the errors of inexperience and precipitation. I did not fully participate in her satisfaction, but was nevertheless most zealously disposed to listen to his narrative. My engagements obliged me to postpone this rehearsal till late in the evening. Collected then round a cheerful hearth, exempt from all likelihood of interruption from without, and our babe's unpractised senses shut up in the sweetest and profoundest sleep, Mervyn, after a pause of recollection, began.	{ "id": "18508" }
2	None	My natal soil is Chester county. My father had a small farm, on which he has been able, by industry, to maintain himself and a numerous family. He has had many children, but some defect in the constitution of our mother has been fatal to all of them but me. They died successively as they attained the age of nineteen or twenty, and, since I have not yet reached that age, I may reasonably look for the same premature fate. In the spring of last year my mother followed her fifth child to the grave, and three months afterwards died herself. My constitution has always been frail, and, till the death of my mother, I enjoyed unlimited indulgence. I cheerfully sustained my portion of labour, for that necessity prescribed; but the intervals were always at my own disposal, and, in whatever manner I thought proper to employ them, my plans were encouraged and assisted. Fond appellations, tones of mildness, solicitous attendance when I was sick, deference to my opinions, and veneration for my talents, compose the image which I still retain of my mother. I had the thoughtlessness and presumption of youth, and, now that she is gone, my compunction is awakened by a thousand recollections of my treatment of her. I was indeed guilty of no flagrant acts of contempt or rebellion. Perhaps her deportment was inevitably calculated to instil into me a froward and refractory spirit. My faults, however, were speedily followed by repentance, and, in the midst of impatience and passion, a look of tender upbraiding from her was always sufficient to melt me into tears and make me ductile to her will. If sorrow for her loss be an atonement for the offences which I committed during her life, ample atonement has been made. My father is a man of slender capacity, but of a temper easy and flexible. He was sober and industrious by habit. He was content to be guided by the superior intelligence of his wife. Under this guidance he prospered; but, when that was withdrawn, his affairs soon began to betray marks of unskilfulness and negligence. My understanding, perhaps, qualified me to counsel and assist my father, but I was wholly unaccustomed to the task of superintendence. Besides, gentleness and fortitude did not descend to me from my mother, and these were indispensable attributes in a boy who desires to dictate to his gray-headed parent. Time, perhaps, might have conferred dexterity on me, or prudence on him, had not a most unexpected event given a different direction to my views. Betty Lawrence was a wild girl from the pine-forests of New Jersey. At the age of ten years she became a bound servant in this city, and, after the expiration of her time, came into my father's neighbourhood in search of employment. She was hired in our family as milkmaid and market-woman. Her features were coarse, her frame robust, her mind totally unlettered, and her morals defective in that point in which female excellence is supposed chiefly to consist. She possessed super-abundant health and good-humour, and was quite a supportable companion in the hay-field or the barnyard. On the death of my mother, she was exalted to a somewhat higher station. The same tasks fell to her lot; but the time and manner of performing them were, in some degree, submitted to her own choice. The cows and the dairy were still her province; but in this no one interfered with her or pretended to prescribe her measures. For this province she seemed not unqualified, and, as long as my father was pleased with her management, I had nothing to object. This state of things continued, without material variation, for several months. There were appearances in my father's deportment to Betty, which excited my reflections, but not my fears. The deference which was occasionally paid to the advice or the claims of this girl was accounted for by that feebleness of mind which degraded my father, in whatever scene he should be placed, to be the tool of others. I had no conception that her claims extended beyond a temporary or superficial gratification. At length, however, a visible change took place in her manners. A scornful affectation and awkward dignity began to be assumed. A greater attention was paid to dress, which was of gayer hues and more fashionable texture. I rallied her on these tokens of a sweetheart, and amused myself with expatiating to her on the qualifications of her lover. A clownish fellow was frequently her visitant. His attentions did not appear to be discouraged. He therefore was readily supposed to be the man. When pointed out as the favourite, great resentment was expressed, and obscure insinuations were made that her aim was not quite so low as that. These denials I supposed to be customary on such occasions, and considered the continuance of his visits as a sufficient confutation of them. I frequently spoke of Betty, her newly-acquired dignity, and of the probable cause of her change of manners, to my father. When this theme was started, a certain coldness and reserve overspread his features. He dealt in monosyllables, and either laboured to change the subject or made some excuse for leaving me. This behaviour, though it occasioned surprise, was never very deeply reflected on. My father was old, and the mournful impressions which were made upon him by the death of his wife, the lapse of almost half a year seemed scarcely to have weakened. Betty had chosen her partner, and I was in daily expectation of receiving a summons to the wedding. One afternoon this girl dressed herself in the gayest manner and seemed making preparations for some momentous ceremony. My father had directed me to put the horse to the chaise. On my inquiring whither he was going, he answered me, in general terms, that he had some business at a few miles' distance. I offered to go in his stead, but he said that was impossible. I was proceeding to ascertain the possibility of this when he left me to go to a field where his workmen were busy, directing me to inform him when the chaise was ready, to supply his place, while absent, in overlooking the workmen. This office was performed; but before I called him from the field I exchanged a few words with the milkmaid, who sat on a bench, in all the primness of expectation, and decked with the most gaudy plumage. I rated her imaginary lover for his tardiness, and vowed eternal hatred to them both for not making me a bride's attendant. She listened to me with an air in which embarrassment was mingled sometimes with exultation and sometimes with malice. I left her at length, and returned to the house not till a late hour. As soon as I entered, my father presented Betty to me as his wife, and desired she might receive that treatment from me which was due to a mother. It was not till after repeated and solemn declarations from both of them that I was prevailed upon to credit this event. Its effect upon my feelings may be easily conceived. I knew the woman to be rude, ignorant, and licentious. Had I suspected this event, I might have fortified my father's weakness and enabled him to shun the gulf to which he was tending; but my presumption had been careless of the danger. To think that such a one should take the place of my revered mother was intolerable. To treat her in any way not squaring with her real merits; to hinder anger and scorn from rising at the sight of her in her new condition, was not in my power. To be degraded to the rank of her servant, to become the sport of her malice and her artifices, was not to be endured. I had no independent provision; but I was the only child of my father, and had reasonably hoped to succeed to his patrimony. On this hope I had built a thousand agreeable visions. I had meditated innumerable projects which the possession of this estate would enable me to execute. I had no wish beyond the trade of agriculture, and beyond the opulence which a hundred acres would give. These visions were now at an end. No doubt her own interest would be, to this woman, the supreme law, and this would be considered as irreconcilably hostile to mine. My father would easily be moulded to her purpose, and that act easily extorted from him which should reduce me to beggary. She had a gross and perverse taste. She had a numerous kindred, indigent and hungry. On these his substance would speedily be lavished. Me she hated, because she was conscious of having injured me, because she knew that I held her in contempt, and because I had detected her in an illicit intercourse with the son of a neighbour. The house in which I lived was no longer my own, nor even my father's. Hitherto I had thought and acted in it with the freedom of a master; but now I was become, in my own conceptions, an alien and an enemy to the roof under which I was born. Every tie which had bound me to it was dissolved or converted into something which repelled me to a distance from it. I was a guest whose presence was borne with anger and impatience. I was fully impressed with the necessity of removal, but I knew not whither to go, or what kind of subsistence to seek. My father had been a Scottish emigrant, and had no kindred on this side of the ocean. My mother's family lived in New Hampshire, and long separation had extinguished all the rights of relationship in her offspring. Tilling the earth was my only profession, and, to profit by my skill in it, it would be necessary to become a day-labourer in the service of strangers; but this was a destiny to which I, who had so long enjoyed the pleasures of independence and command, could not suddenly reconcile myself. It occurred to me that the city might afford me an asylum. A short day's journey would transport me into it. I had been there twice or thrice in my life, but only for a few hours each time. I knew not a human face, and was a stranger to its modes and dangers. I was qualified for no employment, compatible with a town life, but that of the pen. This, indeed, had ever been a favourite tool with me; and, though it may appear somewhat strange, it is no less true that I had had nearly as much practice at the quill as at the mattock. But the sum of my skill lay in tracing distinct characters. I had used it merely to transcribe what others had written, or to give form to my own conceptions. Whether the city would afford me employment, as a mere copyist, sufficiently lucrative, was a point on which I possessed no means of information. My determination was hastened by the conduct of my new mother. My conjectures as to the course she would pursue with regard to me had not been erroneous. My father's deportment, in a short time, grew sullen and austere. Directions were given in a magisterial tone, and any remissness in the execution of his orders was rebuked with an air of authority. At length these rebukes were followed by certain intimations that I was now old enough to provide for myself; that it was time to think of some employment by which I might secure a livelihood; that it was a shame for me to spend my youth in idleness; that what he had gained was by his own labour; and I must be indebted for my living to the same source. These hints were easily understood. At first, they excited indignation and grief. I knew the source whence they sprung, and was merely able to suppress the utterance of my feelings in her presence. My looks, however, were abundantly significant, and my company became hourly more insupportable. Abstracted from these considerations, my father's remonstrances were not destitute of weight. He gave me being, but sustenance ought surely to be my own gift. In the use of that for which he had been indebted to his own exertions, he might reasonably consult his own choice. He assumed no control over me; he merely did what he would with his own, and, so far from fettering my liberty, he exhorted me to use it for my own benefit, and to make provision for myself. I now reflected that there were other manual occupations besides that of the plough. Among these none had fewer disadvantages than that of carpenter or cabinet-maker. I had no knowledge of this art; but neither custom, nor law, nor the impenetrableness of the mystery, required me to serve a seven years' apprenticeship to it. A master in this trade might possibly be persuaded to take me under his tuition; two or three years would suffice to give me the requisite skill. Meanwhile my father would, perhaps, consent to bear the cost of my maintenance. Nobody could live upon less than I was willing to do. I mentioned these ideas to my father; but he merely commended my intentions without offering to assist me in the execution of them. He had full employment, he said, for all the profits of his ground. No doubt, if I would bind myself to serve four or five years, my master would be at the expense of my subsistence. Be that as it would, I must look for nothing from him. I had shown very little regard for his happiness; I had refused all marks of respect to a woman who was entitled to it from her relation to him. He did not see why he should treat as a son one who refused what was due to him as a father. He thought it right that I should henceforth maintain myself. He did not want my services on the farm, and the sooner I quitted his house the better. I retired from this conference with a resolution to follow the advice that was given. I saw that henceforth I must be my own protector, and wondered at the folly that detained me so long under his roof. To leave it was now become indispensable, and there could be no reason for delaying my departure for a single hour. I determined to bend my course to the city. The scheme foremost in my mind was to apprentice myself to some mechanical trade. I did not overlook the evils of constraint and the dubiousness as to the character of the master I should choose. I was not without hopes that accident would suggest a different expedient, and enable me to procure an immediate subsistence without forfeiting my liberty. I determined to commence my journey the next morning. No wonder the prospect of so considerable a change in my condition should deprive me of sleep. I spent the night ruminating on the future, and in painting to my fancy the adventures which I should be likely to meet. The foresight of man is in proportion to his knowledge. No wonder that, in my state of profound ignorance, not the faintest preconception should be formed of the events that really befell me. My temper was inquisitive, but there was nothing in the scene to which I was going from which my curiosity expected to derive gratification. Discords and evil smells, unsavoury food, unwholesome labour, and irksome companions, were, in my opinion, the unavoidable attendants of a city. My best clothes were of the homeliest texture and shape. My whole stock of linen consisted of three check shirts. Part of my winter evenings' employment, since the death of my mother, consisted in knitting my own stockings. Of these I had three pair, one of which I put on, and the rest I formed, together with two shirts, into a bundle. Three quarter-dollar pieces composed my whole fortune in money.	{ "id": "18508" }
3	None	I rose at the dawn, and, without asking or bestowing a blessing, sallied forth into the highroad to the city, which passed near the house. I left nothing behind, the loss of which I regretted. I had purchased most of my own books with the product of my own separate industry, and, their number being, of course, small, I had, by incessant application, gotten the whole of them by rote. They had ceased, therefore, to be of any further use. I left them, without reluctance, to the fate for which I knew them to be reserved, that of affording food and habitation to mice. I trod this unwonted path with all the fearlessness of youth. In spite of the motives to despondency and apprehension incident to my state, my heels were light and my heart joyous. "Now," said I, "I am mounted into man. I must build a name and a fortune for myself. Strange if this intellect and these hands will not supply me with an honest livelihood. I will try the city in the first place; but, if that should fail, resources are still left to me. I will resume my post in the cornfield and threshing-floor, to which I shall always have access, and where I shall always be happy." I had proceeded some miles on my journey, when I began to feel the inroads of hunger. I might have stopped at any farm-house, and have breakfasted for nothing. It was prudent to husband, with the utmost care, my slender stock; but I felt reluctance to beg as long as I had the means of buying, and I imagined that coarse bread and a little milk would cost little even at a tavern, when any farmer was willing to bestow them for nothing. My resolution was further influenced by the appearance of a signpost. What excuse could I make for begging a breakfast with an inn at hand and silver in my pocket? I stopped, accordingly, and breakfasted. The landlord was remarkably attentive and obliging, but his bread was stale, his milk sour, and his cheese the greenest imaginable. I disdained to animadvert on these defects, naturally supposing that his house could furnish no better. Having finished my meal, I put, without speaking, one of my pieces into his hand. This deportment I conceived to be highly becoming, and to indicate a liberal and manly spirit. I always regarded with contempt a scrupulous maker of bargains. He received the money with a complaisant obeisance. "Right," said he. " _Just_ the money, sir. You are on foot, sir. A pleasant way of travelling, sir. I wish you a good day, sir." So saying, he walked away. This proceeding was wholly unexpected. I conceived myself entitled to at least three-fourths of it in change. The first impulse was to call him back, and contest the equity of his demand; but a moment's reflection showed me the absurdity of such conduct. I resumed my journey with spirits somewhat depressed. I have heard of voyagers and wanderers in deserts, who were willing to give a casket of gems for a cup of cold water. I had not supposed my own condition to be, in any respect, similar; yet I had just given one-third of my estate for a breakfast. I stopped at noon at another inn. I counted on purchasing a dinner for the same price, since I meant to content myself with the same fare. A large company was just sitting down to a smoking banquet. The landlord invited me to join them. I took my place at the table, but was furnished with bread and milk. Being prepared to depart, I took him aside. "What is to pay?" said I.--"Did you drink any thing, sir?" --"Certainly. I drank the milk which was furnished." --"But any liquors, sir?" ---"No." He deliberated a moment, and then, assuming an air of disinterestedness, "'Tis our custom to charge dinner and club; but, as you drank nothing, we'll let the club go. A mere dinner is half a dollar, sir." He had no leisure to attend to my fluctuations. After debating with myself on what was to be done, I concluded that compliance was best, and, leaving the money at the bar, resumed my way. I had not performed more than half my journey, yet my purse was entirely exhausted. This was a specimen of the cost incurred by living at an inn. If I entered the city, a tavern must, at least for some time, be my abode; but I had not a farthing remaining to defray my charges. My father had formerly entertained a boarder for a dollar per week, and, in case of need, I was willing to subsist upon coarser fare and lie on a harder bed than those with which our guest had been supplied. These facts had been the foundation of my negligence on this occasion. What was now to be done? To return to my paternal mansion was impossible. To relinquish my design of entering the city and to seek a temporary asylum, if not permanent employment, at some one of the plantations within view, was the most obvious expedient. These deliberations did not slacken my pace. I was almost unmindful of my way, when I found I had passed Schuylkill at the upper bridge. I was now within the precincts of the city, and night was hastening. It behooved me to come to a speedy decision. Suddenly I recollected that I had not paid the customary toll at the bridge; neither had I money wherewith to pay it. A demand of payment would have suddenly arrested my progress; and so slight an incident would have precluded that wonderful destiny to which I was reserved. The obstacle that would have hindered my advance now prevented my return. Scrupulous honesty did not require me to turn back and awaken the vigilance of the toll-gatherer. I had nothing to pay, and by returning I should only double my debt. "Let it stand," said I, "where it does. All that honour enjoins is to pay when I am able." I adhered to the crossways, till I reached Market Street. Night had fallen, and a triple row of lamps presented a spectacle enchanting and new. My personal cares were, for a time, lost in the tumultuous sensations with which I was now engrossed. I had never visited the city at this hour. When my last visit was paid, I was a mere child. The novelty which environed every object was, therefore, nearly absolute. I proceeded with more cautious steps, but was still absorbed in attention to passing objects. I reached the market-house, and, entering it, indulged myself in new delight and new wonder. I need not remark that our ideas of magnificence and splendour are merely comparative; yet you may be prompted to smile when I tell you that, in walking through this avenue, I, for a moment, conceived myself transported to the hall "pendent with many a row of starry lamps and blazing crescents fed by naphtha and asphaltos." That this transition from my homely and quiet retreat had been effected in so few hours wore the aspect of miracle or magic. I proceeded from one of these buildings to another, till I reached their termination in Front Street. Here my progress was checked, and I sought repose to my weary limbs by seating myself on a stall. No wonder some fatigue was felt by me, accustomed as I was to strenuous exertions, since, exclusive of the minutes spent at breakfast and dinner, I had travelled fifteen hours and forty-five miles. I began now to reflect, with some earnestness, on my condition. I was a stranger, friendless and moneyless. I was unable to purchase food and shelter, and was wholly unused to the business of begging. Hunger was the only serious inconvenience to which I was immediately exposed. I had no objection to spend the night in the spot where I then sat. I had no fear that my visions would be troubled by the officers of police. It was no crime to be without a home; but how should I supply my present cravings and the cravings of to-morrow? At length it occurred to me that one of our country neighbours was probably at this time in the city. He kept a store as well as cultivated a farm. He was a plain and well-meaning man, and, should I be so fortunate as to meet him, his superior knowledge of the city might be of essential benefit to me in my present forlorn circumstances. His generosity might likewise induce him to lend me so much as would purchase one meal. I had formed the resolution to leave the city next day, and was astonished at the folly that had led me into it; but, meanwhile, my physical wants must be supplied. Where should I look for this man? In the course of conversation I recollected him to have referred to the place of his temporary abode. It was an inn; but the sign or the name of the keeper for some time withstood all my efforts to recall them. At length I lighted on the last. It was Lesher's tavern. I immediately set out in search of it. After many inquiries, I at last arrived at the door. I was preparing to enter the house when I perceived that my bundle was gone. I had left it on the stall where I had been sitting. People were perpetually passing to and fro. It was scarcely possible not to have been noticed. No one that observed it would fail to make it his prey. Yet it was of too much value to me to allow me to be governed by a bare probability. I resolved to lose not a moment in returning. With some difficulty I retraced my steps, but the bundle had disappeared. The clothes were, in themselves, of small value, but they constituted the whole of my wardrobe; and I now reflected that they were capable of being transmuted, by the pawn or sale of them, into food. There were other wretches as indigent as I was, and I consoled myself by thinking that my shirts and stockings might furnish a seasonable covering to their nakedness; but there was a relic concealed within this bundle, the loss of which could scarcely be endured by me. It was the portrait of a young man who died three years ago at my father's house, drawn by his own hand. He was discovered one morning in the orchard with many marks of insanity upon him. His air and dress bespoke some elevation of rank and fortune. My mother's compassion was excited, and, as his singularities were harmless, an asylum was afforded him, though he was unable to pay for it. He was constantly declaiming, in an incoherent manner, about some mistress who had proved faithless. His speeches seemed, however, like the rantings of an actor, to be rehearsed by rote or for the sake of exercise. He was totally careless of his person and health, and, by repeated negligences of this kind, at last contracted a fever of which he speedily died. The name which he assumed was Clavering. He gave no distinct account of his family, but stated, in loose terms, that they were residents in England, high-born and wealthy. That they had denied him the woman whom he loved and banished him to America, under penalty of death if he should dare to return, and that they had refused him all means of subsistence in a foreign land. He predicted, in his wild and declamatory way, his own death. He was very skilful at the pencil, and drew this portrait a short time before his dissolution, presented it to me, and charged me to preserve it in remembrance of him. My mother loved the youth because he was amiable and unfortunate, and chiefly because she fancied a very powerful resemblance between his countenance and mine. I was too young to build affection on any rational foundation. I loved him, for whatever reason, with an ardour unusual at my age, and which this portrait had contributed to prolong and to cherish. In thus finally leaving my home, I was careful not to leave this picture behind. I wrapped it in paper in which a few elegiac stanzas were inscribed in my own hand, and with my utmost elegance of penmanship. I then placed it in a leathern case, which, for greater security, was deposited in the centre of my bundle. It will occur to you, perhaps, that it would be safer in some fold or pocket of the clothes which I wore. I was of a different opinion, and was now to endure the penalty of my error. It was in vain to heap execrations on my negligence, or to consume the little strength left to me in regrets. I returned once more to the tavern and made inquiries for Mr. Capper, the person whom I have just mentioned as my father's neighbour. I was informed that Capper was now in town; that he had lodged, on the last night, at this house; that he had expected to do the same to-night, but a gentleman had called ten minutes ago, whose invitation to lodge with him to-night had been accepted. They had just gone out together. Who, I asked, was the gentleman? The landlord had no knowledge of him; he knew neither his place of abode nor his name. Was Mr. Capper expected to return hither in the morning? No; he had heard the stranger propose to Mr. Capper to go with him into the country to-morrow, and Mr. Capper, he believed, had assented. This disappointment was peculiarly severe. I had lost, by my own negligence, the only opportunity that would offer of meeting my friend. Had even the recollection of my loss been postponed for three minutes, I should have entered the house, and a meeting would have been secured. I could discover no other expedient to obviate the present evil. My heart began now, for the first time, to droop. I looked back, with nameless emotions, on the days of my infancy. I called up the image of my mother. I reflected on the infatuation of my surviving parent, and the usurpation of the detestable Betty, with horror. I viewed myself as the most calamitous and desolate of human beings. At this time I was sitting in the common room. There were others in the same apartment, lounging, or whistling, or singing. I noticed them not, but, leaning my head upon my hand, I delivered myself up to painful and intense meditation. From this I was roused by some one placing himself on the bench near me and addressing me thus:--"Pray, sir, if you will excuse me, who was the person whom you were looking for just now? Perhaps I can give you the information you want. If I can, you will be very welcome to it." I fixed my eyes with some eagerness on the person that spoke. He was a young man, expensively and fashionably dressed, whose mien was considerably prepossessing, and whose countenance bespoke some portion of discernment. I described to him the man whom I sought. "I am in search of the same man myself," said he, "but I expect to meet him here. He may lodge elsewhere, but he promised to meet me here at half after nine. I have no doubt he will fulfil his promise, so that you will meet the gentleman." I was highly gratified by this information, and thanked my informant with some degree of warmth. My gratitude he did not notice, but continued: "In order to beguile expectation, I have ordered supper; will you do me the favour to partake with me, unless indeed you have supped already?" I was obliged, somewhat awkwardly, to decline his invitation, conscious as I was that the means of payment were not in my power. He continued, however, to urge my compliance till at length it was, though reluctantly, yielded. My chief motive was the certainty of seeing Capper. My new acquaintance was exceedingly conversible, but his conversation was chiefly characterized by frankness and good-humour. My reserve gradually diminished, and I ventured to inform him, in general terms, of my former condition and present views. He listened to my details with seeming attention, and commented on them with some judiciousness. His statements, however, tended to discourage me from remaining in the city. Meanwhile the hour passed and Capper did not appear. I noticed this circumstance to him with no little solicitude. He said that possibly he might have forgotten or neglected his engagement. His affair was not of the highest importance, and might be readily postponed to a future opportunity. He perceived that my vivacity was greatly damped by this intelligence. He importuned me to disclose the cause. He made himself very merry with my distress, when it was at length discovered. As to the expense of supper, I had partaken of it at his invitation; he therefore should of course be charged with it. As to lodging, he had a chamber and a bed, which he would insist upon my sharing with him. My faculties were thus kept upon the stretch of wonder. Every new act of kindness in this man surpassed the fondest expectation that I had formed. I saw no reason why I should be treated with benevolence. I should have acted in the same manner if placed in the same circumstances; yet it appeared incongruous and inexplicable. I know whence my ideas of human nature were derived. They certainly were not the offspring of my own feelings. These would have taught me that interest and duty were blended in every act of generosity. I did not come into the world without my scruples and suspicions. I was more apt to impute kindnesses to sinister and hidden than to obvious and laudable motives. I paused to reflect upon the possible designs of this person. What end could be served by this behaviour? I was no subject of violence or fraud. I had neither trinket nor coin to stimulate the treachery of others. What was offered was merely lodging for the night. Was this an act of such transcendent disinterestedness as to be incredible? My garb was meaner than that of my companion, but my intellectual accomplishments were at least upon a level with his. Why should he be supposed to be insensible to my claims upon his kindness? I was a youth destitute of experience, money, and friends; but I was not devoid of all mental and personal endowments. That my merit should be discovered, even on such slender intercourse, had surely nothing in it that shocked belief. While I was thus deliberating, my new friend was earnest in his solicitations for my company. He remarked my hesitation, but ascribed it to a wrong cause. "Come," said he, "I can guess your objections and can obviate them. You are afraid of being ushered into company; and people who have passed their lives like you have a wonderful antipathy to strange faces; but this is bedtime with our family, so that we can defer your introduction to them till to-morrow. We may go to our chamber without being seen by any but servants." I had not been aware of this circumstance. My reluctance flowed from a different cause, but, now that the inconveniences of ceremony were mentioned, they appeared to me of considerable weight. I was well pleased that they should thus be avoided, and consented to go along with him. We passed several streets and turned several corners. At last we turned into a kind of court which seemed to be chiefly occupied by stables. "We will go," said he, "by the back way into the house. We shall thus save ourselves the necessity of entering the parlour, where some of the family may still be." My companion was as talkative as ever, but said nothing from which I could gather any knowledge of the number, character, and condition of his family.	{ "id": "18508" }
4	None	We arrived at a brick wall, through which we passed by a gate into an extensive court or yard. The darkness would allow me to see nothing but outlines. Compared with the pigmy dimensions of my father's wooden hovel, the buildings before me were of gigantic loftiness. The horses were here far more magnificently accommodated than I had been. By a large door we entered an elevated hall. "Stay here," said he, "just while I fetch a light." He returned, bearing a candle, before I had time to ponder on my present situation. We now ascended a staircase, covered with painted canvas. No one whose inexperience is less than mine can imagine to himself the impressions made upon me by surrounding objects. The height to which this stair ascended, its dimensions, and its ornaments, appeared to me a combination of all that was pompous and superb. We stopped not till we had reached the third story. Here my companion unlocked and led the way into a chamber. "This," said he, "is my room; permit me to welcome you into it." I had no time to examine this room before, by some accident, the candle was extinguished. "Curse upon my carelessness!" said he. "I must go down again and light the candle. I will return in a twinkling. Meanwhile you may undress yourself and go to bed." He went out, and, as I afterwards recollected, locked the door behind him. I was not indisposed to follow his advice, but my curiosity would first be gratified by a survey of the room. Its height and spaciousness were imperfectly discernible by starlight, and by gleams from a street-lamp. The floor was covered with a carpet, the walls with brilliant hangings; the bed and windows were shrouded by curtains of a rich texture and glossy hues. Hitherto I had merely read of these things. I knew them to be the decorations of opulence; and yet, as I viewed them, and remembered where and what I was on the same hour the preceding day, I could scarcely believe myself awake, or that my senses were not beguiled by some spell. "Where," said I, "will this adventure terminate? I rise on the morrow with the dawn and speed into the country. When this night is remembered, how like a vision will it appear! If I tell the tale by a kitchen-fire, my veracity will be disputed. I shall be ranked with the story-tellers of Shiraz and Bagdad." Though busied in these reflections, I was not inattentive to the progress of time. Methought my companion was remarkably dilatory. He went merely to relight his candle, but certainly he might, during this time, have performed the operation ten times over. Some unforeseen accident might occasion his delay. Another interval passed, and no tokens of his coming. I began now to grow uneasy. I was unable to account for his detention. Was not some treachery designed? I went to the door, and found that it was locked. This heightened my suspicions. I was alone, a stranger, in an upper room of the house. Should my conductor have disappeared, by design or by accident, and some one of the family should find me here, what would be the consequence? Should I not be arrested as a thief, and conveyed to prison? My transition from the street to this chamber would not be more rapid than my passage hence to a jail. These ideas struck me with panic. I revolved them anew, but they only acquired greater plausibility. No doubt I had been the victim of malicious artifice. Inclination, however, conjured up opposite sentiments, and my fears began to subside. What motive, I asked, could induce a human being to inflict wanton injury? I could not account for his delay; but how numberless were the contingencies that might occasion it! I was somewhat comforted by these reflections, but the consolation they afforded was short-lived. I was listening with the utmost eagerness to catch the sound of a foot, when a noise was indeed heard, but totally unlike a step. It was human breath struggling, as it were, for passage. On the first effort of attention, it appeared like a groan. Whence it arose I could not tell. He that uttered it was near; perhaps in the room. Presently the same noise was again heard, and now I perceived that it came from the bed. It was accompanied with a motion like some one changing his posture. What I at first conceived to be a groan appeared now to be nothing more than the expiration of a sleeping man. What should I infer from this incident? My companion did not apprize me that the apartment was inhabited. Was his imposture a jestful or a wicked one? There was no need to deliberate. There were no means of concealment or escape. The person would some time awaken and detect me. The interval would only be fraught with agony, and it was wise to shorten it. Should I not withdraw the curtain, awake the person, and encounter at once all the consequences of my situation? I glided softly to the bed, when the thought occurred, May not the sleeper be a female? I cannot describe the mixture of dread and of shame which glowed in my veins. The light in which such a visitant would be probably regarded by a woman's fears, the precipitate alarms that might be given, the injury which I might unknowingly inflict or undeservedly suffer, threw my thoughts into painful confusion. My presence might pollute a spotless reputation, or furnish fuel to jealousy. Still, though it were a female, would not less injury be done by gently interrupting her slumber? But the question of sex still remained to be decided. For this end I once more approached the bed, and drew aside the silk. The sleeper was a babe. This I discovered by the glimmer of a street-lamp. Part of my solicitudes were now removed. It was plain that this chamber belonged to a nurse or a mother. She had not yet come to bed. Perhaps it was a married pair, and their approach might be momently expected. I pictured to myself their entrance and my own detection. I could imagine no consequence that was not disastrous and horrible, and from which I would not at any price escape. I again examined the door, and found that exit by this avenue was impossible. There were other doors in this room. Any practicable expedient in this extremity was to be pursued. One of these was bolted. I unfastened it and found a considerable space within. Should I immure myself in this closet? I saw no benefit that would finally result from it. I discovered that there was a bolt on the inside, which would somewhat contribute to security. This being drawn, no one could enter without breaking the door. I had scarcely paused, when the long-expected sound of footsteps was heard in the entry. Was it my companion, or a stranger? If it were the latter, I had not yet mustered courage sufficient to meet him. I cannot applaud the magnanimity of my proceeding; but no one can expect intrepid or judicious measures from one in my circumstances. I stepped into the closet, and closed the door. Some one immediately after unlocked the chamber door. He was unattended with a light. The footsteps, as they moved along the carpet, could scarcely be heard. I waited impatiently for some token by which I might be governed. I put my ear to the keyhole, and at length heard a voice, but not that of my companion, exclaim, somewhat above a whisper, "Smiling cherub! safe and sound, I see. Would to God my experiment may succeed, and that thou mayest find a mother where I have found a wife!" There he stopped. He appeared to kiss the babe, and, presently retiring, locked the door after him. These words were capable of no consistent meaning. They served, at least, to assure me that I had been treacherously dealt with. This chamber, it was manifest, did not belong to my companion. I put up prayers to my Deity that he would deliver me from these toils. What a condition was mine! Immersed in palpable darkness! shut up in this unknown recess! lurking like a robber! My meditations were disturbed by new sounds. The door was unlocked, more than one person entered the apartment, and light streamed through the keyhole. I looked; but the aperture was too small and the figures passed too quickly to permit me the sight of them. I bent my ear, and this imparted some more authentic information. The man, as I judged by the voice, was the same who had just departed. Rustling of silk denoted his companion to be female. Some words being uttered by the man, in too low a key to be overheard, the lady burst into a passion of tears. He strove to comfort her by soothing tones and tender appellations. "How can it be helped?" said he. "It is time to resume your courage. Your duty to yourself and to me requires you to subdue this unreasonable grief." He spoke frequently in this strain, but all he said seemed to have little influence in pacifying the lady. At length, however, her sobs began to lessen in vehemence and frequency. He exhorted her to seek for some repose. Apparently she prepared to comply, and conversation was, for a few minutes, intermitted. I could not but advert to the possibility that some occasion to examine the closet, in which I was immured, might occur. I knew not in what manner to demean myself if this should take place. I had no option at present. By withdrawing myself from view I had lost the privilege of an upright deportment. Yet the thought of spending the night in this spot was not to be endured. Gradually I began to view the project of bursting from the closet, and trusting to the energy of truth and of an artless tale, with more complacency. More than once my hand was placed upon the bolt, but withdrawn by a sudden faltering of resolution. When one attempt failed, I recurred once more to such reflections as were adapted to renew my purpose. I preconcerted the address which I should use. I resolved to be perfectly explicit; to withhold no particular of my adventures from the moment of my arrival. My description must necessarily suit some person within their knowledge. All I should want was liberty to depart; but, if this were not allowed, I might at least hope to escape any ill treatment, and to be confronted with my betrayer. In that case I did not fear to make him the attester of my innocence. Influenced by these considerations, I once more touched the lock. At that moment the lady shrieked, and exclaimed, "Good God! What is here?" An interesting conversation ensued. The object that excited her astonishment was the child. I collected from what passed that the discovery was wholly unexpected by her. Her husband acted as if equally unaware of this event. He joined in all her exclamations of wonder and all her wild conjectures. When these were somewhat exhausted, he artfully insinuated the propriety of bestowing care upon the little foundling. I now found that her grief had been occasioned by the recent loss of her own offspring. She was, for some time, averse to her husband's proposal, but at length was persuaded to take the babe to her bosom and give it nourishment. This incident had diverted my mind from its favourite project, and filled me with speculations on the nature of the scene. One explication was obvious, that the husband was the parent of this child, and had used this singular expedient to procure for it the maternal protection of his wife. It would soon claim from her all the fondness which she entertained for her own progeny. No suspicion probably had yet, or would hereafter, occur with regard to its true parent. If her character be distinguished by the usual attributes of women, the knowledge of this truth may convert her love into hatred. I reflected with amazement on the slightness of that thread by which human passions are led from their true direction. With no less amazement did I remark the complexity of incidents by which I had been empowered to communicate to her this truth. How baseless are the structures of falsehood, which we build in opposition to the system of eternal nature! If I should escape undetected from this recess, it will be true that I never saw the face of either of these persons, and yet I am acquainted with the most secret transaction of their lives. My own situation was now more critical than before. The lights were extinguished, and the parties had sought repose. To issue from the closet now would be imminently dangerous. My councils were again at a stand and my designs frustrated. Meanwhile the persons did not drop their discourse, and I thought myself justified in listening. Many facts of the most secret and momentous nature were alluded to. Some allusions were unintelligible. To others I was able to affix a plausible meaning, and some were palpable enough. Every word that was uttered on that occasion is indelibly imprinted on my memory. Perhaps the singularity of my circumstances, and my previous ignorance of what was passing in the world, contributed to render me a greedy listener. Most that was said I shall overlook; but one part of the conversation it will be necessary to repeat. A large company had assembled that evening at their house. They criticized the character and manners of several. At last the husband said, "What think you of the nabob? Especially when he talked about riches? How artfully he encourages the notion of his poverty! Yet not a soul believes him. I cannot for my part account for that scheme of his. I half suspect that his wealth flows from a bad source, since he is so studious of concealing it." "Perhaps, after all," said the lady, "you are mistaken as to his wealth." "Impossible," exclaimed the other. "Mark how he lives. Have I not seen his bank-account? His deposits, since he has been here, amount to no less than half a million." "Heaven grant that it be so!" said the lady, with a sigh. "I shall think with less aversion of your scheme. If poor Tom's fortune be made, and he not the worse, or but little the worse on that account, I shall think it on the whole best." "That," replied he, "is what reconciles me to the scheme. To him thirty thousand are nothing." "But will he not suspect you of some hand in it?" "How can he? Will I not appear to lose as well as himself? Tom is my brother, but who can be supposed to answer for a brother's integrity? but he cannot suspect either of us. Nothing less than a miracle can bring our plot to light. Besides, this man is not what he ought to be. He will, some time or other, come out to be a grand impostor. He makes money by other arts than bargain and sale. He has found his way, by some means, to the Portuguese treasury." Here the conversation took a new direction, and, after some time, the silence of sleep ensued. Who, thought I, is this nabob who counts his dollars by half-millions, and on whom it seems as if some fraud was intended to be practised? Amidst their wariness and subtlety, how little are they aware that their conversation has been overheard! By means as inscrutable as those which conducted me hither, I may hereafter be enabled to profit by this detection of a plot. But, meanwhile, what was I to do? How was I to effect my escape from this perilous asylum? After much reflection, it occurred to me that to gain the street without exciting their notice was not utterly impossible. Sleep does not commonly end of itself, unless at a certain period. What impediments were there between me and liberty which I could not remove, and remove with so much caution as to escape notice? Motion and sound inevitably go together; but every sound is not attended to. The doors of the closet and the chamber did not creak upon their hinges. The latter might be locked. This I was able to ascertain only by experiment. If it were so, yet the key was probably in the lock, and might be used without much noise. I waited till their slow and hoarser inspirations showed them to be both asleep. Just then, on changing my position, my head struck against some things which depended from the ceiling of the closet. They were implements of some kind which rattled against each other in consequence of this unlucky blow. I was fearful lest this noise should alarm, as the closet was little distant from the bed. The breathing of one instantly ceased, and a motion was made as if the head were lifted from the pillow. This motion, which was made by the husband, awaked his companion, who exclaimed, "What is the matter?" "Something, I believe," replied he, "in the closet. If I was not dreaming, I heard the pistols strike against each other as if some one was taking them down." This intimation was well suited to alarm the lady. She besought him to ascertain the matter. This, to my utter dismay, he at first consented to do, but presently observed that probably his ears had misinformed him. It was hardly possible that the sound proceeded from them. It might be a rat, or his own fancy might have fashioned it. It is not easy to describe my trepidations while this conference was holding. I saw how easily their slumber was disturbed. The obstacles to my escape were less surmountable than I had imagined. In a little time all was again still. I waited till the usual tokens of sleep were distinguishable. I once more resumed my attempt. The bolt was withdrawn with all possible slowness; but I could by no means prevent all sound. My state was full of inquietude and suspense; my attention being painfully divided between the bolt and the condition of the sleepers. The difficulty lay in giving that degree of force which was barely sufficient. Perhaps not less than fifteen minutes were consumed in this operation. At last it was happily effected, and the door was cautiously opened. Emerging as I did from utter darkness, the light admitted into three windows produced, to my eyes, a considerable illumination. Objects which, on my first entrance into this apartment, were invisible, were now clearly discerned. The bed was shrouded by curtains, yet I shrunk back into my covert, fearful of being seen. To facilitate my escape, I put off my shoes. My mind was so full of objects of more urgent moment, that the propriety of taking them along with me never occurred. I left them in the closet. I now glided across the apartment to the door. I was not a little discouraged by observing that the key was wanting. My whole hope depended on the omission to lock it. In my haste to ascertain this point, I made some noise which again roused one of the sleepers. He started, and cried, "Who is there?" I now regarded my case as desperate, and detection as inevitable. My apprehensions, rather than my caution, kept me mute. I shrunk to the wall, and waited in a kind of agony for the moment that should decide my fate. The lady was again roused. In answer to her inquiries, her husband said that some one, he believed, was at the door, but there was no danger of their entering, for he had locked it, and the key was in his pocket. My courage was completely annihilated by this piece of intelligence. My resources were now at an end. I could only remain in this spot till the morning light, which could be at no great distance, should discover me. My inexperience disabled me from estimating all the perils of my situation. Perhaps I had no more than temporary inconveniences to dread. My intention was innocent, and I had been betrayed into my present situation, not by my own wickedness, but the wickedness of others. I was deeply impressed with the ambiguousness which would necessarily rest upon my motives, and the scrutiny to which they would be subjected. I shuddered at the bare possibility of being ranked with thieves. These reflections again gave edge to my ingenuity in search of the means of escape. I had carefully attended to the circumstances of their entrance. Possibly the act of locking had been unnoticed; but was it not likewise possible that this person had been mistaken? The key was gone. Would this have been the case if the door were unlocked? My fears, rather than my hopes, impelled me to make the experiment. I drew back the latch, and, to my unspeakable joy, the door opened. I passed through and explored my way to the staircase. I descended till I reached the bottom. I could not recollect with accuracy the position of the door leading into the court, but, by carefully feeling along the wall with my hands, I at length discovered it. It was fastened by several bolts and a lock. The bolts were easily withdrawn, but the key was removed. I knew not where it was deposited. I thought I had reached the threshold of liberty, but here was an impediment that threatened to be insurmountable. But, if doors could not be passed, windows might be unbarred. I remembered that my companion had gone into a door on the left hand, in search of a light. I searched for this door. Fortunately it was fastened only by a bolt. It admitted me into a room which I carefully explored till I reached a window. I will not dwell on my efforts to unbar this entrance. Suffice it to say that, after much exertion and frequent mistakes, I at length found my way into the yard, and thence passed into the court.	{ "id": "18508" }
5	None	Now I was once more on public ground. By so many anxious efforts had I disengaged myself from the perilous precincts of private property. As many stratagems as are usually made to enter a house had been employed by me to get out of it. I was urged to the use of them by my fears; yet, so far from carrying off spoil, I had escaped with the loss of an essential part of my dress. I had now leisure to reflect. I seated myself on the ground and reviewed the scenes through which I had just passed. I began to think that my industry had been misemployed. Suppose I had met the person on his first entrance into his chamber? Was the truth so utterly wild as not to have found credit? Since the door was locked, and there was no other avenue, what other statement but the true one would account for my being found there? This deportment had been worthy of an honest purpose. My betrayer probably expected that this would be the issue of his jest. My rustic simplicity, he might think, would suggest no more ambiguous or elaborate expedient. He might likewise have predetermined to interfere if my safety had been really endangered. On the morrow the two doors of the chamber and the window below would be found unclosed. They will suspect a design to pillage, but their searches will terminate in nothing but in the discovery of a pair of clumsy and dusty shoes in the closet. Now that I was safe I could not help smiling at the picture which my fancy drew of their anxiety and wonder. These thoughts, however, gave place to more momentous considerations. I could not imagine to myself a more perfect example of indigence than I now exhibited. There was no being in the city on whose kindness I had any claim. Money I had none, and what I then wore comprised my whole stock of movables. I had just lost my shoes, and this loss rendered my stockings of no use. My dignity remonstrated against a barefoot pilgrimage, but to this, necessity now reconciled me. I threw my stockings between the bars of a stable-window, belonging, as I thought, to the mansion I had just left. These, together with my shoes, I left to pay the cost of my entertainment. I saw that the city was no place for me. The end that I had had in view, of procuring some mechanical employment, could only be obtained by the use of means, but what means to pursue I knew not. This night's perils and deceptions gave me a distaste to a city life, and my ancient occupations rose to my view enhanced by a thousand imaginary charms, I resolved forthwith to strike into the country. The day began now to dawn. It was Sunday, and I was desirous of eluding observation. I was somewhat recruited by rest, though the languors of sleeplessness oppressed me. I meant to throw myself on the first lap of verdure I should meet, and indulge in sleep that I so much wanted. I knew not the direction of the streets; but followed that which I first entered from the court, trusting that, by adhering steadily to one course, I should some time reach the fields. This street, as I afterwards found, tended to Schuylkill, and soon extricated me from houses. I could not cross this river without payment of toll. It was requisite to cross it in order to reach that part of the country whither I was desirous of going; but how should I effect my passage? I knew of no ford, and the smallest expense exceeded my capacity. Ten thousand guineas and a farthing were equally remote from nothing, and nothing was the portion allotted to me. While my mind was thus occupied, I turned up one of the streets which tend northward. It was, for some length, uninhabited and unpaved. Presently I reached a pavement, and a painted fence, along which a row of poplars was planted. It bounded a garden into which a knot-hole permitted me to pry. The enclosure was a charming green, which I saw appended to a house of the loftiest and most stately order. It seemed like a recent erection, had all the gloss of novelty, and exhibited, to my unpractised eyes, the magnificence of palaces. My father's dwelling did not equal the height of one story, and might be easily comprised in one-fourth of those buildings which here were designed to accommodate the menials. My heart dictated the comparison between my own condition and that of the proprietors of this domain. How wide and how impassable was the gulf by which we were separated! This fair inheritance had fallen to one who, perhaps, would only abuse it to the purposes of luxury, while I, with intentions worthy of the friend of mankind, was doomed to wield the flail and the mattock. I had been entirely unaccustomed to this strain of reflection. My books had taught me the dignity and safety of the middle path, and my darling writer abounded with encomiums on rural life. At a distance from luxury and pomp, I viewed them, perhaps, in a just light. A nearer scrutiny confirmed my early prepossessions; but, at the distance at which I now stood, the lofty edifices, the splendid furniture, and the copious accommodations of the rich excited my admiration and my envy. I relinquished my station, and proceeded, in a heartless mood, along the fence. I now came to the mansion itself. The principal door was entered by a staircase of marble. I had never seen the stone of Carrara, and wildly supposed this to have been dug from Italian quarries. The beauty of the poplars, the coolness exhaled from the dew-besprent bricks, the commodiousness of the seat which these steps afforded, and the uncertainty into which I was plunged respecting my future conduct, all combined to make me pause. I sat down on the lower step and began to meditate. By some transition it occurred to me that the supply of my most urgent wants might be found in some inhabitant of this house. I needed at present a few cents; and what were a few cents to the tenant of a mansion like this? I had an invincible aversion to the calling of a beggar, but I regarded with still more antipathy the vocation of a thief; to this alternative, however, I was now reduced. I must either steal or beg; unless, indeed, assistance could be procured under the notion of a loan. Would a stranger refuse to lend the pittance that I wanted? Surely not, when the urgency of my wants was explained. I recollected other obstacles. To summon the master of the house from his bed, perhaps, for the sake of such an application, would be preposterous. I should be in more danger of provoking his anger than exciting his benevolence. This request might, surely, with more propriety be preferred to a passenger. I should, probably, meet several before I should arrive at Schuylkill. A servant just then appeared at the door, with bucket and brush. This obliged me, much sooner than I intended, to decamp. With some reluctance I rose and proceeded. This house occupied the corner of the street, and I now turned this corner towards the country. A person, at some distance before me, was approaching in an opposite direction. "Why," said I, "may I not make my demand of the first man I meet? This person exhibits tokens of ability to lend. There is nothing chilling or austere in his demeanour." The resolution to address this passenger was almost formed; but the nearer he advanced my resolves grew less firm. He noticed me not till he came within a few paces. He seemed busy in reflection; and, had not my figure caught his eye, or had he merely bestowed a passing glance upon me, I should not have been sufficiently courageous to have detained him. The event, however, was widely different. He looked at me and started. For an instant, as it were, and till he had time to dart at me a second glance, he checked his pace. This behaviour decided mine, and he stopped on perceiving tokens of a desire to address him. I spoke, but my accents and air sufficiently denoted my embarrassments:-- "I am going to solicit a favour which my situation makes of the highest importance to me, and which I hope it will be easy for you, sir, to grant. It is not an alms, but a loan, that I seek; a loan that I will repay the moment I am able to do it. I am going to the country, but have not wherewith to pay my passage over Schuylkill, or to buy a morsel of bread. May I venture to request of you, sir, the loan of sixpence? As I told you, it is my intention to repay it." I delivered this address, not without some faltering, but with great earnestness. I laid particular stress upon my intention to refund the money. He listened with a most inquisitive air. His eye perused me from head to foot. After some pause, he said, in a very emphatic manner, "Why into the country? Have you family? Kindred? Friends?" "No," answered I, "I have neither. I go in search of the means of subsistence. I have passed my life upon a farm, and propose to die in the same condition." "Whence have you come?" "I came yesterday from the country, with a view to earn my bread in some way, but have changed my plan and propose now to return." "Why have you changed it? In what way are you capable of earning your bread?" "I hardly know," said I. "I can, as yet, manage no tool, that can be managed in the city, but the pen. My habits have, in some small degree, qualified me for a writer. I would willingly accept employment of that kind." He fixed his eyes upon the earth, and was silent for some minutes. At length, recovering himself, he said, "Follow me to my house. Perhaps something may be done for you. If not, I will lend you sixpence." It may be supposed that I eagerly complied with the invitation. My companion said no more, his air bespeaking him to be absorbed by his own thoughts, till he reached his house, which proved to be that at the door of which I had been seated. We entered a parlour together. Unless you can assume my ignorance and my simplicity, you will be unable to conceive the impressions that were made by the size and ornaments of this apartment. I shall omit these impressions, which, indeed, no description could adequately convey, and dwell on incidents of greater moment. He asked me to give him a specimen of my penmanship. I told you that I had bestowed very great attention upon this art. Implements were brought, and I sat down to the task. By some inexplicable connection a line in Shakspeare occurred to me, and I wrote,-- "My poverty, but not my will, consents." The sentiment conveyed in this line powerfully affected him, but in a way which I could not then comprehend. I collected from subsequent events that the inference was not unfavourable to my understanding or my morals. He questioned me as to my history. I related my origin and my inducements to desert my father's house. With respect to last night's adventures I was silent. I saw no useful purpose that could be answered by disclosure, and I half suspected that my companion would refuse credit to my tale. There were frequent intervals of abstraction and reflection between his questions. My examination lasted not much less than an hour. At length he said, "I want an amanuensis or copyist. On what terms will you live with me?" I answered that I knew not how to estimate the value of my services. I knew not whether these services were agreeable or healthful. My life had hitherto been active. My constitution was predisposed to diseases of the lungs, and the change might be hurtful. I was willing, however, to try and to content myself for a month or a year, with so much as would furnish me with food, clothing, and lodging. " 'Tis well," said he. "You remain with me as long and no longer than both of us please. You shall lodge and eat in this house. I will supply you with clothing, and your task will be to write what I dictate. Your person, I see, has not shared much of your attention. It is in my power to equip you instantly in the manner which becomes a resident in this house. Come with me." He led the way into the court behind and thence into a neat building, which contained large wooden vessels and a pump: "There," said he, "you may wash yourself; and, when that is done, I will conduct you to your chamber and your wardrobe." This was speedily performed, and he accordingly led the way to the chamber. It was an apartment in the third story, finished and furnished in the same costly and superb style with the rest of the house. He opened closets and drawers which overflowed with clothes and linen of all and of the best kinds. "These are yours," said he, "as long as you stay with me. Dress yourself as likes you best. Here is every thing your nakedness requires. When dressed, you may descend to breakfast." With these words he left me. The clothes were all in the French style, as I afterwards, by comparing my garb with that of others, discovered. They were fitted to my shape with the nicest precision. I bedecked myself with all my care. I remembered the style of dress used by my beloved Clavering. My locks were of shining auburn, flowing and smooth like his. Having wrung the wet from them, and combed, I tied them carelessly in a black riband. Thus equipped, I surveyed myself in a mirror. You may imagine, if you can, the sensations which this instantaneous transformation produced. Appearances are wonderfully influenced by dress. Check shirt, buttoned at the neck, an awkward fustian coat, check trowsers and bare feet, were now supplanted by linen and muslin, nankeen coat striped with green, a white silk waistcoat elegantly needle-wrought, cassimere pantaloons, stockings of variegated silk, and shoes that in their softness, pliancy, and polished surface vied with satin. I could scarcely forbear looking back to see whether the image in the glass, so well proportioned, so gallant, and so graceful, did not belong to another. I could scarcely recognise any lineaments of my own. I walked to the window. "Twenty minutes ago," said I, "I was traversing that path a barefoot beggar; now I am thus." Again I surveyed myself. "Surely some insanity has fastened on my understanding. My senses are the sport of dreams. Some magic that disdains the cumbrousness of nature's progress has wrought this change." I was roused from these doubts by a summons to breakfast, obsequiously delivered by a black servant. I found Welbeck (for I shall henceforth call him by his true name) at the breakfast-table. A superb equipage of silver and china was before him. He was startled at my entrance. The change in my dress seemed for a moment to have deceived him. His eye was frequently fixed upon me with unusual steadfastness. At these times there was inquietude and wonder in his features. I had now an opportunity of examining my host. There was nicety but no ornament in his dress. His form was of the middle height, spare, but vigorous and graceful. His face was cast, I thought, in a foreign mould. His forehead receded beyond the usual degree in visages which I had seen. His eyes large and prominent, but imparting no marks of benignity and habitual joy. The rest of his face forcibly suggested the idea of a convex edge. His whole figure impressed me with emotions of veneration and awe. A gravity that almost amounted to sadness invariably attended him when we were alone together. He whispered the servant that waited, who immediately retired. He then said, turning to me, "A lady will enter presently, whom you are to treat with the respect due to my daughter. You must not notice any emotion she may betray at the sight of you, nor expect her to converse with you; for she does not understand your language." He had scarcely spoken when she entered. I was seized with certain misgivings and flutterings which a clownish education may account for. I so far conquered my timidity, however, as to snatch a look at her. I was not born to execute her portrait. Perhaps the turban that wreathed her head, the brilliant texture and inimitable folds of her drapery, and nymphlike port, more than the essential attributes of her person, gave splendour to the celestial vision. Perhaps it was her snowy hues, and the cast rather than the position of her features, that were so prolific of enchantment; or perhaps the wonder originated only in my own ignorance. She did not immediately notice me. When she did she almost shrieked with surprise. She held up her hands, and, gazing upon me, uttered various exclamations which I could not understand. I could only remark that her accents were thrillingly musical. Her perturbations refused to be stilled. It was with difficulty that she withdrew her regards from me. Much conversation passed between her and Welbeck, but I could comprehend no part of it. I was at liberty to animadvert on the visible part of their intercourse. I diverted some part of my attention from my own embarrassments, and fixed it on their looks. In this art, as in most others, I was an unpractised simpleton. In the countenance of Welbeck, there was somewhat else than sympathy with the astonishment and distress of the lady; but I could not interpret these additional tokens. When her attention was engrossed by Welbeck, her eyes were frequently vagrant or downcast; her cheeks contracted a deeper hue; and her breathing was almost prolonged into a sigh. These were marks on which I made no comments at the time. My own situation was calculated to breed confusion in my thoughts and awkwardness in my gestures. Breakfast being finished, the lady, apparently at the request of Welbeck, sat down to a piano-forte. Here again I must be silent. I was not wholly destitute of musical practice and musical taste. I had that degree of knowledge which enabled me to estimate the transcendent skill of this performer. As if the pathos of her touch were insufficient, I found after some time that the lawless jarrings of the keys were chastened by her own more liquid notes. She played without a book, and, though her bass might be preconcerted, it was plain that her right-hand notes were momentary and spontaneous inspirations. Meanwhile Welbeck stood, leaning his arms on the back of a chair near her, with his eyes fixed on her face. His features were fraught with a meaning which I was eager to interpret, but unable. I have read of transitions effected by magic; I have read of palaces and deserts which were subject to the dominion of spells; poets may sport with their power, but I am certain that no transition was ever conceived more marvellous and more beyond the reach of foresight than that which I had just experienced. Heaths vexed by a midnight storm may be changed into a hall of choral nymphs and regal banqueting; forest glades may give sudden place to colonnades and carnivals; but he whose senses are deluded finds himself still on his natal earth. These miracles are contemptible when compared with that which placed me under this roof and gave me to partake in this audience. I know that my emotions are in danger of being regarded as ludicrous by those who cannot figure to themselves the consequences of a limited and rustic education.	{ "id": "18508" }
6	None	In a short time the lady retired. I naturally expected that some comments would be made on her behaviour, and that the cause of her surprise and distress on seeing me would be explained; but Welbeck said nothing on that subject. When she had gone, he went to the window and stood for some time occupied, as it seemed, with his own thoughts. Then he turned to me, and, calling me by my name, desired me to accompany him up-stairs. There was neither cheerfulness nor mildness in his address, but neither was there any thing domineering or arrogant. We entered an apartment on the same floor with my chamber, but separated from it by a spacious entry. It was supplied with bureaus, cabinets, and bookcases. "This," said he, "is your room and mine; but we must enter it and leave it together. I mean to act not as your master but your friend. My maimed hand" (so saying, he showed me his right hand, the forefinger of which was wanting) "will not allow me to write accurately or copiously. For this reason I have required your aid, in a work of some moment. Much haste will not be requisite, and, as to the hours and duration of employment, these will be seasonable and short. "Your present situation is new to you, and we will therefore defer entering on our business. Meanwhile you may amuse yourself in what manner you please. Consider this house as your home and make yourself familiar with it. Stay within or go out, be busy or be idle, as your fancy shall prompt: only you will conform to our domestic system as to eating and sleep; the servants will inform you of this. Next week we will enter on the task for which I designed you. You may now withdraw." I obeyed this mandate with some awkwardness and hesitation. I went into my own chamber not displeased with an opportunity of loneliness. I threw myself on a chair and resigned myself to those thoughts which would naturally arise in this situation. I speculated on the character and views of Welbeck. I saw that he was embosomed in tranquillity and grandeur. Riches, therefore, were his; but in what did his opulence consist, and whence did it arise? What were the limits by which it was confined, and what its degree of permanence? I was unhabituated to ideas of floating or transferable wealth. The rent of houses and lands was the only species of property which was, as yet, perfectly intelligible. My previous ideas led me to regard Welbeck as the proprietor of this dwelling and of numerous houses and farms. By the same cause I was fain to suppose him enriched by inheritance, and that his life had been uniform. I next adverted to his social condition. This mansion appeared to have but two inhabitants besides servants. Who was the nymph who had hovered for a moment in my sight? Had he not called her his daughter? The apparent difference in their ages would justify this relation; but her guise, her features, and her accents, were foreign. Her language I suspected strongly to be that of Italy. How should he be the father of an Italian? But were there not some foreign lineaments in his countenance? This idea seemed to open a new world to my view. I had gained, from my books, confused ideas of European governments and manners. I knew that the present was a period of revolution and hostility. Might not these be illustrious fugitives from Provence or the Milanese? Their portable wealth, which may reasonably be supposed to be great, they have transported hither. Thus may be explained the sorrow that veils their countenance. The loss of estates and honours; the untimely death of kindred, and perhaps of his wife, may furnish eternal food for regrets. Welbeck's utterance, though rapid and distinct, partook, as I conceived, in some very slight degree of a foreign idiom. Such was the dream that haunted my undisciplined and unenlightened imagination. The more I revolved it, the more plausible it seemed. On due supposition every appearance that I had witnessed was easily solved,--unless it were their treatment of me. This, at first, was a source of hopeless perplexity. Gradually, however, a clue seemed to be afforded. Welbeck had betrayed astonishment on my first appearance. The lady's wonder was mingled with distress. Perhaps they discovered a remarkable resemblance between me and one who stood in the relation of son to Welbeck, and of brother to the lady. This youth might have perished on the scaffold or in war. These, no doubt, were his clothes. This chamber might have been reserved for him, but his death left it to be appropriated to another. I had hitherto been unable to guess at the reason why all this kindness had been lavished on me. Will not this conjecture sufficiently account for it? No wonder that this resemblance was enhanced by assuming his dress. Taking all circumstances into view, these ideas were not, perhaps, destitute of probability. Appearances naturally suggested them to me. They were, also, powerfully enforced by inclination. They threw me into transports of wonder and hope. When I dwelt upon the incidents of my past life, and traced the chain of events, from the death of my mother to the present moment, I almost acquiesced in the notion that some beneficent and ruling genius had prepared my path for me. Events which, when foreseen, would most ardently have been deprecated, and when they happened were accounted in the highest degree luckless, were now seen to be propitious. Hence I inferred the infatuation of despair, and the folly of precipitate conclusions. But what was the fate reserved for me? Perhaps Welbeck would adopt me for his own son. Wealth has ever been capriciously distributed. The mere physical relation of birth is all that entitles us to manors and thrones. Identity itself frequently depends upon a casual likeness or an old nurse's imposture. Nations have risen in arms, as in the case of the Stuarts, in the cause of one the genuineness of whose birth has been denied and can never be proved. But if the cause be trivial and fallacious, the effects are momentous and solid. It ascertains our portion of felicity and usefulness, and fixes our lot among peasants or princes. Something may depend upon my own deportment. Will it not behoove me to cultivate all my virtues and eradicate all my defects? I see that the abilities of this man are venerable. Perhaps he will not lightly or hastily decide in my favour. He will be governed by the proofs that I shall give of discernment and integrity. I had always been exempt from temptation, and was therefore undepraved; but this view of things had a wonderful tendency to invigorate my virtuous resolutions. All within me was exhilaration and joy. There was but one thing wanting to exalt me to a dizzy height and give me place among the stars of heaven. My resemblance to her brother had forcibly affected this lady; but I was not her brother. I was raised to a level with her and made a tenant of the same mansion. Some intercourse would take place between us. Time would lay level impediments and establish familiarity, and this intercourse might foster love and terminate in--_marriage_! These images were of a nature too glowing and expansive to allow me to be longer inactive. I sallied forth into the open air. This tumult of delicious thoughts in some time subsided, and gave way to images relative to my present situation. My curiosity was awake. As yet I had seen little of the city, and this opportunity for observation was not to be neglected. I therefore coursed through several streets, attentively examining the objects that successively presented themselves. At length, it occurred to me to search out the house in which I had lately been immured. I was not without hopes that at some future period I should be able to comprehend the allusions and brighten the obscurities that hung about the dialogue of last night. The house was easily discovered. I reconnoitred the court and gate through which I had passed. The mansion was of the first order in magnitude and decoration. This was not the bound of my present discovery, for I was gifted with that confidence which would make me set on foot inquiries in the neighbourhood. I looked around for a suitable medium of intelligence. The opposite and adjoining houses were small, and apparently occupied by persons of an indigent class. At one of these was a sign denoting it to be the residence of a tailor. Seated on a bench at the door was a young man, with coarse uncombed locks, breeches knee-unbuttoned, stockings ungartered, shoes slipshod and unbuckled, and a face unwashed, gazing stupidly from hollow eyes. His aspect was embellished with good nature, though indicative of ignorance. This was the only person in sight. He might be able to say something concerning his opulent neighbour. To him, therefore, I resolved to apply. I went up to him, and, pointing to the house in question, asked him who lived there. He answered, "Mr. Matthews." "What is his profession,--his way of life?" "A gentleman. He does nothing but walk about." "How long has he been married?" "Married! He is not married as I know on. He never has been married. He is a bachelor." This intelligence was unexpected. It made me pause to reflect whether I had not mistaken the house. This, however, seemed impossible. I renewed my questions. "A bachelor, say you? Are you not mistaken?" "No. It would be an odd thing if he was married. An old fellow, with one foot in the grave--Comical enough for him to _git_ a _vife_!" "An old man? Does he live alone? What is his family?" "No, he does not live alone. He has a niece that lives with him. She is married, and her husband lives there too." "What is his name?" "I don't know. I never heard it as I know on." "What is his trade?" "He's a merchant; he keeps a store somewhere or other; but I don't know where." "How long has he been married?" "About two years. They lost a child lately. The young woman was in a huge taking about it. They say she was quite crazy some days for the death of the child; and she is not quite out of _the dumps_ yet. To-be-sure, the child was a sweet little thing; but they need not make such a rout about it. I'll war'n' they'll have enough of them before they die." "What is the character of the young man? Where was he born and educated? Has he parents or brothers?" My companion was incapable of answering these questions, and I left him with little essential addition to the knowledge I already possessed.	{ "id": "18508" }
7	None	After viewing various parts of the city, intruding into churches, and diving into alleys, I returned. The rest of the day I spent chiefly in my chamber, reflecting on my new condition; surveying my apartment, its presses and closets; and conjecturing the causes of appearances. At dinner and supper I was alone. Venturing to inquire of the servant where his master and mistress were, I was answered that they were engaged. I did not question him as to the nature of their engagement, though it was a fertile source of curiosity. Next morning, at breakfast, I again met Welbeck and the lady. The incidents were nearly those of the preceding morning, if it were not that the lady exhibited tokens of somewhat greater uneasiness. When she left us, Welbeck sank into apparent meditation. I was at a loss whether to retire or remain where I was. At last, however, I was on the point of leaving the room, when he broke silence and began a conversation with me. He put questions to me, the obvious scope of which was to know my sentiments on moral topics. I had no motives to conceal my opinions, and therefore delivered them with frankness. At length he introduced allusions to my own history, and made more particular inquiries on that head. Here I was not equally frank; yet I did not feign any thing, but merely dealt in generals. I had acquired notions of propriety on this head, perhaps somewhat fastidious. Minute details, respecting our own concerns, are apt to weary all but the narrator himself. I said thus much, and the truth of my remark was eagerly assented to. With some marks of hesitation and after various preliminaries, my companion hinted that my own interest, as well as his, enjoined upon me silence to all but himself, on the subject of my birth and early adventures. It was not likely that, while in his service, my circle of acquaintance would be large or my intercourse with the world frequent; but in my communication with others he requested me to speak rather of others than of myself. This request, he said, might appear singular to me, but he had his reasons for making it, which it was not necessary, at present, to disclose, though, when I should know them, I should readily acknowledge their validity. I scarcely knew what answer to make. I was willing to oblige him. I was far from expecting that any exigence would occur, making disclosure my duty. The employment was productive of pain more than of pleasure, and the curiosity that would uselessly seek a knowledge of my past life was no less impertinent than the loquacity that would uselessly communicate that knowledge. I readily promised, therefore, to adhere to his advice. This assurance afforded him evident satisfaction; yet it did not seem to amount to quite as much as he wished. He repeated, in stronger terms, the necessity there was for caution. He was far from suspecting me to possess an impertinent and talkative disposition, or that, in my eagerness to expatiate on my own concerns, I should overstep the limits of politeness. But this was not enough. I was to govern myself by a persuasion that the interests of my friend and myself would be materially affected by my conduct. Perhaps I ought to have allowed these insinuations to breed suspicion in my mind; but, conscious as I was of the benefits which I had received from this man; prone, from my inexperience, to rely upon professions and confide in appearances; and unaware that I could be placed in any condition in which mere silence respecting myself could be injurious or criminal, I made no scruple to promise compliance with his wishes. Nay, I went further than this; I desired to be accurately informed as to what it was proper to conceal. He answered that my silence might extend to every thing anterior to my arrival in the city and my being incorporated with his family. Here our conversation ended, and I retired to ruminate on what had passed. I derived little satisfaction from my reflections. I began now to perceive inconveniences that might arise from this precipitate promise. Whatever should happen in consequence of my being immured in the chamber, and of the loss of my clothes and of the portrait of my friend, I had bound myself to silence. These inquietudes, however, were transient. I trusted that these events would operate auspiciously; but my curiosity was now awakened as to the motives which _Welbeck_ could have for exacting from me this concealment. To act under the guidance of another, and to wander in the dark, ignorant whither my path tended and what effects might flow from my agency, was a new and irksome situation. From these thoughts I was recalled by a message from Welbeck. He gave me a folded paper, which he requested me to carry to No. --South Fourth Street. "Inquire," said he, "for Mrs. Wentworth, in order merely to ascertain the house, for you need not ask to see her; merely give the letter to the servant and retire. Excuse me for imposing this service upon you. It is of too great moment to be trusted to a common messenger; I usually perform it myself, but am at present otherwise engaged." I took the letter and set out to deliver it. This was a trifling circumstance, yet my mind was full of reflections on the consequences that might flow from it. I remembered the directions that were given, but construed them in a manner different, perhaps, from Welbeck's expectations or wishes. He had charged me to leave the billet with the servant who happened to answer my summons; but had he not said that the message was important, insomuch that it could not be intrusted to common hands? He had permitted, rather than enjoined, me to dispense with seeing the lady; and this permission I conceived to be dictated merely by regard to my convenience. It was incumbent on me, therefore, to take some pains to deliver the script into her own hands. I arrived at the house and knocked. A female servant appeared. "Her mistress was up-stairs; she would tell her if I wished to see her," and meanwhile invited me to enter the parlour; I did so; and the girl retired to inform her mistress that one waited for her. I ought to mention that my departure from the directions which I had received was, in some degree, owing to an inquisitive temper; I was eager after knowledge, and was disposed to profit by every opportunity to survey the interior of dwellings and converse with their inhabitants. I scanned the walls, the furniture, the pictures. Over the fireplace was a portrait in oil of a female. She was elderly and matron-like. Perhaps she was the mistress of this habitation, and the person to whom I should immediately be introduced. Was it a casual suggestion, or was there an actual resemblance between the strokes of the pencil which executed this portrait and that of Clavering? However that be, the sight of this picture revived the memory of my friend and called up a fugitive suspicion that this was the production of his skill. I was busily revolving this idea when the lady herself entered. It was the same whose portrait I had been examining. She fixed scrutinizing and powerful eyes upon me. She looked at the superscription of the letter which I presented, and immediately resumed her examination of me. I was somewhat abashed by the closeness of her observation, and gave tokens of this state of mind which did not pass unobserved. They seemed instantly to remind her that she behaved with too little regard to civility. She recovered herself and began to peruse the letter. Having done this, her attention was once more fixed upon me. She was evidently desirous of entering into some conversation, but seemed at a loss in what manner to begin. This situation was new to me and was productive of no small embarrassment. I was preparing to take my leave when she spoke, though not without considerable hesitation:-- "This letter is from Mr. Welbeck--you are his friend--I presume--perhaps--a relation?" I was conscious that I had no claim to either of these titles, and that I was no more than his servant. My pride would not allow me to acknowledge this, and I merely said, "I live with him at present, madam." I imagined that this answer did not perfectly satisfy her; yet she received it with a certain air of acquiescence. She was silent for a few minutes, and then, rising, said, "Excuse me, sir, for a few minutes. I will write a few words to Mr. Welbeck." So saying, she withdrew. I returned to the contemplation of the picture. From this, however, my attention was quickly diverted by a paper that lay on the mantel. A single glance was sufficient to put my blood into motion. I started and laid my hand upon the well-known packet. It was that which enclosed the portrait of Clavering! I unfolded and examined it with eagerness. By what miracle came it hither? It was found, together with my bundle, two nights before. I had despaired of ever seeing it again, and yet here was the same portrait enclosed in the selfsame paper! I have forborne to dwell upon the regret, amounting to grief, with which I was affected in consequence of the loss of this precious relic. My joy on thus speedily and unexpectedly regaining it is not easily described. For a time I did not reflect that to hold it thus in my hand was not sufficient to entitle me to repossession. I must acquaint this lady with the history of this picture, and convince her of my ownership. But how was this to be done? Was she connected in any way, by friendship or by consanguinity, with that unfortunate youth? If she were, some information as to his destiny would be anxiously sought. I did not, just then, perceive any impropriety in imparting it. If it came into her hands by accident, still, it will be necessary to relate the mode in which it was lost in order to prove my title to it. I now heard her descending footsteps, and hastily replaced the picture on the mantel. She entered, and, presenting me a letter, desired me to deliver it to Mr. Welbeck. I had no pretext for deferring my departure, but was unwilling to go without obtaining possession of the portrait. An interval of silence and irresolution succeeded. I cast significant glances at the spot where it lay, and at length mustered up my strength of mind, and, pointing to the paper,--"Madam," said I, "_there_ is something which I recognise to be mine: I know not how it came into your possession, but so lately as the day before yesterday it was in mine. I lost it by a strange accident, and, as I deem it of inestimable value, I hope you will have no objection to restore it." During this speech the lady's countenance exhibited marks of the utmost perturbation. "Your picture!" she exclaimed; "you lost it! How? Where? Did you know that person? What has become of him?" "I knew him well," said I. "That picture was executed by himself. He gave it to me with his own hands; and, till the moment I unfortunately lost it, it was my dear and perpetual companion." "Good heaven!" she exclaimed, with increasing vehemence; "where did you meet with him? What has become of him? Is he dead, or alive?" These appearances sufficiently showed me that Clavering and this lady were connected by some ties of tenderness. I answered that he was dead; that my mother and myself were his attendants and nurses, and that this portrait was his legacy to me. This intelligence melted her into tears, and it was some time before she recovered strength enough to resume the conversation. She then inquired, "When and where was it that he died? How did you lose this portrait? It was found wrapped in some coarse clothes, lying in a stall in the market-house, on Saturday evening. Two negro women, servants of one of my friends, strolling through the market, found it and brought it to their mistress, who, recognising the portrait, sent it to me. To whom did that bundle belong? Was it yours?" These questions reminded me of the painful predicament in which I now stood. I had promised Welbeck to conceal from every one my former condition; but to explain in what manner this bundle was lost, and how my intercourse with Clavering had taken place, was to violate this promise. It was possible, perhaps, to escape the confession of the truth by equivocation. Falsehoods were easily invented, and might lead her far away from my true condition; but I was wholly unused to equivocation. Never yet had a lie polluted my lips. I was not weak enough to be ashamed of my origin. This lady had an interest in the fate of Clavering, and might justly claim all the information which I was able to impart. Yet to forget the compact which I had so lately made, and an adherence to which might possibly be in the highest degree beneficial to me and to Welbeck; I was willing to adhere to it, provided falsehood could be avoided. These thoughts rendered me silent. The pain of my embarrassment amounted almost to agony. I felt the keenest regret at my own precipitation in claiming the picture. Its value to me was altogether imaginary. The affection which this lady had borne the original, whatever was the source of that affection, would prompt her to cherish the copy, and, however precious it was in my eyes, I should cheerfully resign it to her. In the confusion of my thoughts an expedient suggested itself sufficiently inartificial and bold. "It is true, madam, what I have said. I saw him breathe his last. This is his only legacy. If you wish it I willingly resign it; but this is all that I can now disclose. I am placed in circumstances which render it improper to say more." These words were uttered not very distinctly, and the lady's vehemence hindered her from noticing them. She again repeated her interrogations, to which I returned the same answer. At first she expressed the utmost surprise at my conduct. From this she descended to some degree of asperity. She made rapid allusions to the history of Clavering. He was the son of the gentleman who owned the house in which Welbeck resided. He was the object of immeasurable fondness and indulgence. He had sought permission to travel, and, this being refused by the absurd timidity of his parents, he had twice been frustrated in attempting to embark for Europe clandestinely. They ascribed his disappearance to a third and successful attempt of this kind, and had exercised anxious and unwearied diligence in endeavouring to trace his footsteps. All their efforts had failed. One motive for their returning to Europe was the hope of discovering some traces of him, as they entertained no doubt of his having crossed the ocean. The vehemence of Mrs. Wentworth's curiosity as to those particulars of his life and death may be easily conceived. My refusal only heightened this passion. Finding me refractory to all her efforts, she at length dismissed me in anger.	{ "id": "18508" }
8	None	This extraordinary interview was now past. Pleasure as well as pain attended my reflections on it. I adhered to the promise I had improvidently given to Welbeck, but had excited displeasure, and perhaps suspicion, in the lady. She would find it hard to account for my silence. She would probably impute it to perverseness, or imagine it to flow from some incident connected with the death of Clavering, calculated to give a new edge to her curiosity. It was plain that some connection subsisted between her and Welbeck. Would she drop the subject at the point which it had now attained? Would she cease to exert herself to extract from me the desired information, or would she not rather make Welbeck a party in the cause, and prejudice my new friend against me? This was an evil proper, by all lawful means, to avoid. I knew of no other expedient than to confess to him the truth with regard to Clavering, and explain to him the dilemma in which my adherence to my promise had involved me. I found him on my return home, and delivered him the letter with which I was charged. At the sight of it, surprise, mingled with some uneasiness, appeared in his looks. "What!" said he, in a tone of disappointment, "you then saw the lady?" I now remembered his directions to leave my message at the door, and apologized for my neglecting them by telling my reasons. His chagrin vanished, but not without an apparent effort, and he said that all was well; the affair was of no moment. After a pause of preparation, I entreated his attention to something which I had to relate. I then detailed the history of Clavering and of my late embarrassments. As I went on, his countenance betokened increasing solicitude. His emotion was particularly strong when I came to the interrogatories of Mrs. Wentworth in relation to Clavering; but this emotion gave way to profound surprise when I related the manner in which I had eluded her inquiries. I concluded with observing that, when I promised forbearance on the subject of my own adventures, I had not foreseen any exigence which would make an adherence to my promise difficult or inconvenient; that, if his interest was promoted by my silence, I was still willing to maintain it, and requested his directions how to conduct myself on this occasion. He appeared to ponder deeply and with much perplexity on what I had said. When he spoke there was hesitation in his manner and circuity in his expressions, that proved him to have something in his thoughts which he knew not how to communicate. He frequently paused; but my answers and remarks, occasionally given, appeared to deter him from the revelation of his purpose. Our discourse ended, for the present, by his desiring me to persist in my present plan; I should suffer no inconveniences from it, since it would be my own fault if an interview again took place between the lady and me; meanwhile he should see her and effectually silence her inquiries. I ruminated not superficially or briefly on this dialogue. By what means would he silence her inquiries? He surely meant not to mislead her by fallacious representations. Some inquietude now crept into my thoughts. I began to form conjectures as to the nature of the scheme to which my suppression of the truth was to be thus made subservient. It seemed as if I were walking in the dark and might rush into snares or drop into pits before I was aware of my danger. Each moment accumulated my doubts, and I cherished a secret foreboding that the event would prove my new situation to be far less fortunate than I had, at first, fondly believed. The question now occurred, with painful repetition, who and what was Welbeck? What was his relation to this foreign lady? What was the service for which I was to be employed? I could not be contented without a solution of these mysteries. Why should I not lay my soul open before my new friend? Considering my situation, would he regard my fears and my surmises as criminal? I felt that they originated in laudable habits and views. My peace of mind depended on the favourable verdict which conscience should pass on my proceedings. I saw the emptiness of fame and luxury, when put in the balance against the recompense of virtue. Never would I purchase the blandishments of adulation and the glare of opulence at the price of my honesty. Amidst these reflections the dinner-hour arrived. The lady and Welbeck were present. A new train of sentiments now occupied my mind. I regarded them both with inquisitive eyes. I cannot well account for the revolution which had taken place in my mind. Perhaps it was a proof of the capriciousness of my temper, or it was merely the fruit of my profound ignorance of life and manners. Whencesoever it arose, certain it is that I contemplated the scene before me with altered eyes. Its order and pomp was no longer the parent of tranquillity and awe. My wild reveries of inheriting this splendour and appropriating the affections of this nymph, I now regarded as lunatic hope and childish folly. Education and nature had qualified me for a different scene. This might be the mask of misery and the structure of vice. My companions as well as myself were silent during the meal. The lady retired as soon as it was finished. My inexplicable melancholy increased. It did not pass unnoticed by Welbeck, who inquired, with an air of kindness, into the cause of my visible dejection. I am almost ashamed to relate to what extremes my folly transported me. Instead of answering him, I was weak enough to shed tears. This excited afresh his surprise and his sympathy. He renewed his inquiries; my heart was full, but how to disburden it I knew not. At length, with some difficulty, I expressed my wishes to leave his house and return into the country. What, he asked, had occurred to suggest this new plan? What motive could incite me to bury myself in rustic obscurity? How did I purpose to dispose of myself? Had some new friend sprung up more able or more willing to benefit me than he had been? "No," I answered, "I have no relation who would own me, or friend who would protect. If I went into the country it would be to the toilsome occupations of a day-labourer; but even that was better than my present situation." This opinion, he observed, must be newly formed. What was there irksome or offensive in my present mode of life? That this man condescended to expostulate with me; to dissuade me from my new plan; and to enumerate the benefits which he was willing to confer, penetrated my heart with gratitude. I could not but acknowledge that leisure and literature, copious and elegant accommodation, were valuable for their own sake; that all the delights of sensation and refinements of intelligence were comprised within my present sphere, and would be nearly wanting in that to which I was going. I felt temporary compunction for my folly, and determined to adopt a different deportment. I could not prevail upon myself to unfold the true cause of my dejection, and permitted him therefore to ascribe it to a kind of homesickness; to inexperience; and to that ignorance which, on being ushered into a new scene, is oppressed with a sensation of forlornness. He remarked that these chimeras would vanish before the influence of time, and company, and occupation. On the next week he would furnish me with employment; meanwhile he would introduce me into company, where intelligence and vivacity would combine to dispel my glooms. As soon as we separated, my disquietudes returned. I contended with them in vain, and finally resolved to abandon my present situation. When and how this purpose was to be effected I knew not. That was to be the theme of future deliberation. Evening having arrived, Welbeck proposed to me to accompany me on a visit to one of his friends. I cheerfully accepted the invitation, and went with him to your friend Mr. Wortley's. A numerous party was assembled, chiefly of the female sex. I was introduced by Welbeck by the title of _a young friend of his_. Notwithstanding my embarrassment, I did not fail to attend to what passed on this occasion. I remarked that the utmost deference was paid to my companion, on whom his entrance into this company appeared to operate like magic. His eyes sparkled; his features expanded into a benign serenity; and his wonted reserve gave place to a torrent-like and overflowing elocution. I marked this change in his deportment with the utmost astonishment. So great was it, that I could hardly persuade myself that it was the same person. A mind thus susceptible of new impressions must be, I conceived, of a wonderful texture. Nothing was further from my expectations than that this vivacity was mere dissimulation and would take its leave of him when he left the company; yet this I found to be the case. The door was no sooner closed after him than his accustomed solemnity returned. He spake little, and that little was delivered with emphatical and monosyllabic brevity. We returned home at a late hour, and I immediately retired to my chamber, not so much from the desire of repose as in order to enjoy and pursue my own reflections without interruption. The condition of my mind was considerably remote from happiness. I was placed in a scene that furnished fuel to my curiosity. This passion is a source of pleasure, provided its gratification be practicable. I had no reason, in my present circumstances, to despair of knowledge; yet suspicion and anxiety beset me. I thought upon the delay and toil which the removal of my ignorance would cost, and reaped only pain and fear from the reflection. The air was remarkably sultry. Lifted sashes and lofty ceilings were insufficient to attemper it. The perturbation of my thoughts affected my body, and the heat which oppressed me was aggravated, by my restlessness, almost into fever. Some hours were thus painfully past, when I recollected that the bath, erected in the court below, contained a sufficient antidote to the scorching influence of the atmosphere. I rose, and descended the stairs softly, that I might not alarm Welbeck and the lady, who occupied the two rooms on the second floor. I proceeded to the bath, and, filling the reservoir with water, speedily dissipated the heat that incommoded me. Of all species of sensual gratification, that was the most delicious; and I continued for a long time laving my limbs and moistening my hair. In the midst of this amusement, I noticed the approach of day, and immediately saw the propriety of returning to my chamber. I returned with the same caution which I had used in descending; my feet were bare, so that it was easy to proceed unattended by the smallest signal of my progress. I had reached the carpeted staircase, and was slowly ascending, when I heard, within the chamber that was occupied by the lady, a noise, as of some one moving. Though not conscious of having acted improperly, yet I felt reluctance to be seen. There was no reason to suppose that this sound was connected with the detection of me in this situation; yet I acted as if this reason existed, and made haste to pass the door and gain the second flight of steps. I was unable to accomplish my design, when the chamber door slowly opened, and Welbeck, with a light in his hand, came out. I was abashed and disconcerted at this interview. He started at seeing me; but, discovering in an instant who it was, his face assumed an expression in which shame and anger were powerfully blended. He seemed on the point of opening his mouth to rebuke me; but, suddenly checking himself, he said, in a tone of mildness, "How is this? Whence come you?" His emotion seemed to communicate itself, with an electrical rapidity, to my heart. My tongue faltered while I made some answer. I said, "I had been seeking relief from the heat of the weather, in the bath." He heard my explanation in silence; and, after a moment's pause, passed into his own room, and shut himself in. I hastened to my chamber. A different observer might have found in these circumstances no food for his suspicion or his wonder. To me, however, they suggested vague and tumultuous ideas. As I strode across the room I repeated, "This woman is his daughter. What proof have I of that? He once asserted it; and has frequently uttered allusions and hints from which no other inference could be drawn. The chamber from which he came, in an hour devoted to sleep, was hers. For what end could a visit like this be paid? A parent may visit his child at all seasons, without a crime. On seeing me, methought his features indicated more than surprise. A keen interpreter would be apt to suspect a consciousness of wrong. What if this woman be not his child! How shall their relationship be ascertained?" I was summoned at the customary hour to breakfast. My mind was full of ideas connected with this incident. I was not endowed with sufficient firmness to propose the cool and systematic observation of this man's deportment. I felt as if the state of my mind could not but be evident to him; and experienced in myself all the confusion which this discovery was calculated to produce in him. I would have willingly excused myself from meeting him; but that was impossible. At breakfast, after the usual salutations, nothing was said. For a time I scarcely lifted my eyes from the table. Stealing a glance at Welbeck, I discovered in his features nothing but his wonted gravity. He appeared occupied with thoughts that had no relation to last night's adventure. This encouraged me; and I gradually recovered my composure. Their inattention to me allowed me occasionally to throw scrutinizing and comparing glances at the face of each. The relationship of parent and child is commonly discovered in the visage; but the child may resemble either of its parents, yet have no feature in common with both. Here outlines, surfaces, and hues were in absolute contrariety. That kindred subsisted between them was possible, notwithstanding this dissimilitude; but this circumstance contributed to envenom my suspicions. Breakfast being finished, Welbeck cast an eye of invitation to the piano-forte. The lady rose to comply with his request. My eye chanced to be, at that moment, fixed on her. In stepping to the instrument, some motion or appearance awakened a thought in my mind which affected my feelings like the shock of an earthquake. I have too slight acquaintance with the history of the passions to truly explain the emotion which now throbbed in my veins. I had been a stranger to what is called love. From subsequent reflection, I have contracted a suspicion that the sentiment with which I regarded this lady was not untinctured from this source, and that hence arose the turbulence of my feelings on observing what I construed into marks of pregnancy. The evidence afforded me was slight; yet it exercised an absolute sway over my belief. It was well that this suspicion had not been sooner excited. Now civility did not require my stay in the apartment, and nothing but flight could conceal the state of my mind. I hastened, therefore, to a distance, and shrouded myself in the friendly secrecy of my own chamber. The constitution of my mind is doubtless singular and perverse; yet that opinion, perhaps, is the fruit of my ignorance. It may by no means be uncommon for men to _fashion_ their conclusions in opposition to evidence and _probability_, and so as to feed their malice and subvert their happiness. Thus it was, in an eminent degree, in my case. The simple fact was connected, in my mind, with a train of the most hateful consequences. The depravity of Welbeck was inferred from it. The charms of this angelic woman were tarnished and withered. I had formerly surveyed her as a precious and perfect monument, but now it was a scene of ruin and blast. This had been a source of sufficient anguish; but this was not all. I recollected that the claims of a parent had been urged. Will you believe that these claims were now admitted, and that they heightened the iniquity of Welbeck into the blackest and most stupendous of all crimes? These ideas were necessarily transient. Conclusions more conformable to appearances succeeded. This lady might have been lately reduced to widowhood. The recent loss of a beloved companion would sufficiently account for her dejection, and make her present situation compatible with duty. By this new train of ideas I was somewhat comforted. I saw the folly of precipitate inferences and the injustice of my atrocious imputations, and acquired some degree of patience in my present state of uncertainty. My heart was lightened of its wonted burden, and I laboured to invent some harmless explication of the scene that I had witnessed the preceding night. At dinner Welbeck appeared as usual, but not the lady. I ascribed her absence to some casual indisposition, and ventured to inquire into the state of her health. My companion said she was well, but that she had left the city for a month or two, finding the heat of summer inconvenient where she was. This was no unplausible reason for retirement. A candid mind would have acquiesced in this representation, and found in it nothing inconsistent with a supposition respecting the cause of appearances favourable to her character; but otherwise was I affected. The uneasiness which had flown for a moment returned, and I sunk into gloomy silence. From this I was roused by my patron, who requested me to deliver a billet, which he put into my hand, at the counting-house of Mr. Thetford, and to bring him an answer. This message was speedily performed. I entered a large building by the river-side. A spacious apartment presented itself, well furnished with pipes and hogsheads. In one corner was a smaller room, in which a gentleman was busy at writing. I advanced to the door of the room, but was there met by a young person, who received my paper and delivered it to him within. I stood still at the door; but was near enough to overhear what would pass between them. The letter was laid upon the desk, and presently he that sat at it lifted his eyes and glanced at the superscription. He scarcely spoke above a whisper; but his words, nevertheless, were clearly distinguishable. I did not call to mind the sound of his voice, but his words called up a train of recollections. "Lo!" said he, carelessly, "this from the _Nabob_!" An incident so slight as this was sufficient to open a spacious scene of meditation. This little word, half whispered in a thoughtless mood, was a key to unlock an extensive cabinet of secrets. Thetford was probably indifferent whether his exclamation were overheard. Little did he think on the inferences which would be built upon it. "The Nabob!" By this appellation had some one been denoted in the chamber dialogue of which I had been an unsuspected auditor. The man who pretended poverty, and yet gave proofs of inordinate wealth; whom it was pardonable to defraud of thirty thousand dollars; first, because the loss of that sum would be trivial to one opulent as he; and, secondly, because he was imagined to have acquired this opulence by other than honest methods. Instead of forthwith returning home, I wandered into the fields, to indulge myself in the new thoughts which were produced by this occurrence. I entertained no doubt that the person alluded to was my patron. No new light was thrown upon his character; unless something were deducible from the charge vaguely made, that his wealth was the fruit of illicit practices. He was opulent, and the sources of his wealth were unknown, if not to the rest of the community, at least to Thetford. But here had a plot been laid. The fortune of Thetford's brother was to rise from the success of artifices of which the credulity of Welbeck was to be the victim. To detect and to counterwork this plot was obviously my duty. My interference might now indeed be too late to be useful; but this was at least to be ascertained by experiment. How should my intention be effected? I had hitherto concealed from Welbeck my adventures at Thetford's house. These it was now necessary to disclose, and to mention the recent occurrence. My deductions, in consequence of my ignorance, might be erroneous; but of their truth his knowledge of his own affairs would enable him to judge. It was possible that Thetford and he whose chamber conversation I had overheard were different persons. I endeavoured in vain to ascertain their identity by a comparison of their voices. The words lately heard, my remembrance did not enable me certainly to pronounce to be uttered by the same organs. This uncertainty was of little moment. It sufficed that Welbeck was designated by this appellation, and that therefore he was proved to be the subject of some fraudulent proceeding. The information that I possessed it was my duty to communicate as expeditiously as possible. I was resolved to employ the first opportunity that offered for this end. My meditations had been ardently pursued, and, when I recalled my attention, I found myself bewildered among fields and fences. It was late before I extricated myself from unknown paths, and reached home. I entered the parlour; but Welbeck was not there. A table, with tea-equipage for one person, was set; from which I inferred that Welbeck was engaged abroad. This belief was confirmed by the report of the servant. He could not inform me where his master was, but merely that he should not take tea at home. This incident was a source of vexation and impatience. I knew not but that delay would be of the utmost moment to the safety of my friend. Wholly unacquainted as I was with the nature of his contracts with Thetford, I could not decide whether a single hour would not avail to obviate the evils that threatened him. Had I known whither to trace his footsteps, I should certainly have sought an immediate interview; but, as it was, I was obliged to wait, with what patience I could collect, for his return to his own house. I waited hour after hour in vain. The sun declined, and the shades of evening descended; but Welbeck was still at a distance.	{ "id": "18508" }
9	None	Welbeck did not return, though hour succeeded hour till the clock struck ten. I inquired of the servants, who informed me that their master was not accustomed to stay out so late. I seated myself at a table, in a parlour, on which there stood a light, and listened for the signal of his coming, either by the sound of steps on the pavement without or by a peal from the bell. The silence was uninterrupted and profound, and each minute added to my sum of impatience and anxiety. To relieve myself from the heat of the weather, which was aggravated by the condition of my thoughts, as well as to beguile this tormenting interval, it occurred to me to betake myself to the bath. I left the candle where it stood, and imagined that even in the bath I should hear the sound of the bell which would be rung upon his arrival at the door. No such signal occurred, and, after taking this refreshment, I prepared to return to my post. The parlour was still unoccupied, but this was not all; the candle I had left upon the table was gone. This was an inexplicable circumstance. On my promise to wait for their master, the servants had retired to bed. No signal of any one's entrance had been given. The street door was locked, and the key hung at its customary place upon the wall. What was I to think? It was obvious to suppose that the candle had been removed by a domestic; but their footsteps could not be traced, and I was not sufficiently acquainted with the house to find the way, especially immersed in darkness, to their chamber. One measure, however, it was evidently proper to take, which was to supply myself, anew, with a light. This was instantly performed; but what was next to be done? I was weary of the perplexities in which I was embroiled. I saw no avenue to escape from them but that which led me to the bosom of nature and to my ancient occupations. For a moment I was tempted to resume my rustic garb, and, on that very hour, to desert this habitation. One thing only detained me; the desire to apprize my patron of the treachery of Thetford. For this end I was anxious to obtain an interview; but now I reflected that this information could by other means be imparted. Was it not sufficient to write him briefly these particulars, and leave him to profit by the knowledge? Thus I might, likewise, acquaint him with my motives for thus abruptly and unseasonably deserting his service. To the execution of this scheme pen and paper were necessary. The business of writing was performed in the chamber on the third story. I had been hitherto denied access to this room. In it was a show of papers and books. Here it was that the task, for which I had been retained, was to be performed; but I was to enter it and leave it only in company with Welbeck. For what reasons, I asked, was this procedure to be adopted? The influence of prohibitions and an appearance of disguise in awakening curiosity is well known. My mind fastened upon the idea of this room with an unusual degree of intenseness. I had seen it but for a moment. Many of Welbeck's hours were spent in it. It was not to be inferred that they were consumed in idleness: what then was the nature of his employment over which a veil of such impenetrable secrecy was cast? Will you wonder that the design of entering this recess was insensibly formed? Possibly it was locked, but its accessibleness was likewise possible. I meant not the commission of any crime. My principal purpose was to procure the implements of writing, which were elsewhere not to be found. I should neither unseal papers nor open drawers. I would merely take a survey of the volumes and attend to the objects that spontaneously presented themselves to my view. In this there surely was nothing criminal or blameworthy. Meanwhile I was not unmindful of the sudden disappearance of the candle. This incident filled my bosom with the inquietudes of fear and the perturbations of wonder. Once more I paused to catch any sound that might arise from without. All was still. I seized the candle and prepared to mount the stairs. I had not reached the first landing when I called to mind my midnight meeting with Welbeck at the door of his daughter's chamber. The chamber was now desolate; perhaps it was accessible; if so, no injury was done by entering it. My curiosity was strong, but it pictured to itself no precise object. Three steps would bear me to the door. The trial, whether it was fastened, might be made in a moment; and I readily imagined that something might be found within to reward the trouble of examination. The door yielded to my hand, and I entered. No remarkable object was discoverable. The apartment was supplied with the usual furniture. I bent my steps towards a table over which a mirror was suspended. My glances, which roved with swiftness from one object to another, shortly lighted on a miniature portrait that hung near. I scrutinized it with eagerness. It was impossible to overlook its resemblance to my own visage. This was so great that for a moment I imagined myself to have been the original from which it had been drawn. This flattering conception yielded place to a belief merely of similitude between me and the genuine original. The thoughts which this opinion was fitted to produce were suspended by a new object. A small volume, that had, apparently, been much used, lay upon the toilet. I opened it, and found it to contain some of the Dramas of Apostolo Zeno. I turned over the leaves; a written paper saluted my sight. A single glance informed me that it was English. For the present I was insensible to all motives that would command me to forbear. I seized the paper with an intention to peruse it. At that moment a stunning report was heard. It was loud enough to shake the walls of the apartment, and abrupt enough to throw me into tremors. I dropped the book and yielded for a moment to confusion and surprise. From what quarter it came, I was unable accurately to determine; but there could be no doubt, from its loudness, that it was near, and even in the house. It was no less manifest that the sound arose from the discharge of a pistol. Some hand must have drawn the trigger. I recollected the disappearance of the candle from the room below. Instantly a supposition darted into my mind which made my hair rise and my teeth chatter. "This," I said, "is the deed of Welbeck. He entered while I was absent from the room; he hied to his chamber; and, prompted by some unknown instigation, has inflicted on himself death!" This idea had a tendency to palsy my limbs and my thoughts. Some time passed in painful and tumultuous fluctuation. My aversion to this catastrophe, rather than a belief of being, by that means, able to prevent or repair the evil, induced me to attempt to enter his chamber. It was possible that my conjectures were erroneous. The door of his room was locked. I knocked; I demanded entrance in a low voice; I put my eye and my ear to the keyhole and the crevices; nothing could be heard or seen. It was unavoidable to conclude that no one was within; yet the effluvia of gunpowder was perceptible. Perhaps the room above had been the scene of this catastrophe. I ascended the second flight of stairs. I approached the door. No sound could be caught by my most vigilant attention. I put out the light that I carried, and was then able to perceive that there was light within the room. I scarcely knew how to act. For some minutes I paused at the door. I spoke, and requested permission to enter. My words were succeeded by a death-like stillness. At length I ventured softly to withdraw the bolt, to open and to advance within the room. Nothing could exceed the horror of my expectation; yet I was startled by the scene that I beheld. In a chair, whose back was placed against the front wall, sat Welbeck. My entrance alarmed him not, nor roused him from the stupor into which he was plunged. He rested his hands upon his knees, and his eyes were riveted to something that lay, at the distance of a few feet before him, on the floor. A second glance was sufficient to inform me of what nature this object was. It was the body of a man, bleeding, ghastly, and still exhibiting the marks of convulsion and agony! I shall omit to describe the shock which a spectacle like this communicated to my unpractised senses. I was nearly as panic-struck and powerless as Welbeck himself. I gazed, without power of speech, at one time, at Welbeck; then I fixed terrified eyes on the distorted features of the dead. At length, Welbeck, recovering from his reverie, looked up, as if to see who it was that had entered. No surprise, no alarm, was betrayed by him on seeing me. He manifested no desire or intention to interrupt the fearful silence. My thoughts wandered in confusion and terror. The first impulse was to fly from the scene; but I could not be long insensible to the exigences of the moment. I saw that affairs must not be suffered to remain in their present situation. The insensibility or despair of Welbeck required consolation and succour. How to communicate my thoughts, or offer my assistance, I knew not. What led to this murderous catastrophe; who it was whose breathless corpse was before me; what concern Welbeck had in producing his death; were as yet unknown. At length he rose from his seat, and strode at first with faltering, and then with more steadfast steps, across the floor. This motion seemed to put him in possession of himself. He seemed now, for the first time, to recognise my presence. He turned to me, and said, in a tone of severity,-- "How now? What brings you here?" This rebuke was unexpected. I stammered out, in reply, that the report of the pistol had alarmed me, and that I came to discover the cause of it. He noticed not my answer, but resumed his perturbed steps, and his anxious but abstracted looks. Suddenly he checked himself, and, glancing a furious eye at the corpse, he muttered, "Yes, the die is cast. This worthless and miserable scene shall last no longer. I will at once get rid of life and all its humiliations." Here succeeded a new pause. The course of his thoughts seemed now to become once more tranquil. Sadness, rather than fury, overspread his features; and his accent, when he spoke to me, was not faltering, but solemn. "Mervyn," said he, "you comprehend not this scene. Your youth and inexperience make you a stranger to a deceitful and flagitious world. You know me not. It is time that this ignorance should vanish. The knowledge of me and of my actions may be of use to you. It may teach you to avoid the shoals on which my virtue and my peace have been wrecked; but to the rest of mankind it can be of no use. The ruin of my fame is, perhaps, irretrievable; but the height of my iniquity need not be known. I perceive in you a rectitude and firmness worthy to be trusted; promise me, therefore, that not a syllable of what I tell you shall ever pass your lips." I had lately experienced the inconvenience of a promise; but I was now confused, embarrassed, ardently inquisitive as to the nature of this scene, and unapprized of the motives that might afterwards occur, persuading or compelling me to disclosure. The promise which he exacted was given. He resumed:-- "I have detained you in my service, partly for your own benefit, but chiefly for mine. I intended to inflict upon you injury and to do you good. Neither of these ends can I now accomplish, unless the lessons which my example may inculcate shall inspire you with fortitude and arm you with caution. "What it was that made me thus, I know not. I am not destitute of understanding. My thirst of knowledge, though irregular, is ardent. I can talk and can feel as virtue and justice prescribe; yet the tenor of my actions has been uniform. One tissue of iniquity and folly has been my life; while my thoughts have been familiar with enlightened and disinterested principles. Scorn and detestation I have heaped upon myself. Yesterday is remembered with remorse. To-morrow is contemplated with anguish and fear; yet every day is productive of the same crimes and of the same follies. "I was left, by the insolvency of my father, (a trader of Liverpool,) without any means of support but such as labour should afford me. Whatever could generate pride, and the love of independence, was my portion. Whatever can incite to diligence was the growth of my condition; yet my indolence was a cureless disease; and there were no arts too sordid for me to practise. "I was content to live on the bounty of a kinsman. His family was numerous, and his revenue small. He forbore to upbraid me, or even to insinuate the propriety of providing for myself; but he empowered me to pursue any liberal or mechanical profession which might suit my taste. I was insensible to every generous motive. I laboured to forget my dependent and disgraceful condition, because the remembrance was a source of anguish, without being able to inspire me with a steady resolution to change it. "I contracted an acquaintance with a woman who was unchaste, perverse, and malignant. Me, however, she found it no difficult task to deceive. My uncle remonstrated against the union. He took infinite pains to unveil my error, and to convince me that wedlock was improper for one destitute, as I was, of the means of support, even if the object of my choice were personally unexceptionable. "His representations were listened to with anger. That he thwarted my will in this respect, even by affectionate expostulation, cancelled all that debt of gratitude which I owed to him. I rewarded him for all his kindness by invective and disdain, and hastened to complete my ill-omened marriage. I had deceived the woman's father by assertions of possessing secret resources. To gratify my passion, I descended to dissimulation and falsehood. He admitted me into his family, as the husband of his child; but the character of my wife and the fallacy of my assertions were quickly discovered. He denied me accommodation under his roof, and I was turned forth to the world to endure the penalty of my rashness and my indolence. "Temptation would have moulded me into any villanous shape. My virtuous theories and comprehensive erudition would not have saved me from the basest of crimes. Luckily for me, I was, for the present, exempted from temptation. I had formed an acquaintance with a young American captain. On being partially informed of my situation, he invited me to embark with him for his own country. My passage was gratuitous. I arrived, in a short time, at Charleston, which was the place of his abode. "He introduced me to his family, every member of which was, like himself, imbued with affection and benevolence. I was treated like their son and brother. I was hospitably entertained until I should be able to select some path of lucrative industry. Such was my incurable depravity, that I made no haste to select my pursuit. An interval of inoccupation succeeded, which I applied to the worst purposes. "My friend had a sister, who was married, but during the absence of her husband resided with her family. Hence originated our acquaintance. The purest of human hearts and the most vigorous understanding were hers. She idolized her husband, who well deserved to be the object of her adoration. Her affection for him, and her general principles, appeared to be confirmed beyond the power to be shaken. I sought her intercourse without illicit views; I delighted in the effusions of her candour and the flashes of her intelligence; I conformed, by a kind of instinctive hypocrisy, to her views; I spoke and felt from the influence of immediate and momentary conviction. She imagined she had found in me a friend worthy to partake in all her sympathies and forward all her wishes. We were mutually deceived. She was the victim of self-delusion; but I must charge myself with practising deceit both upon myself and her. "I reflect with astonishment and horror on the steps which led to her degradation and to my calamity. In the high career of passion all consequences were overlooked. She was the dupe of the most audacious sophistry and the grossest delusion. I was the slave of sensual impulses and voluntary blindness. The effect may be easily conceived. Not till symptoms of pregnancy began to appear were our eyes opened to the ruin which impended over us. "Then I began to revolve the consequences, which the mist of passion had hitherto concealed. I was tormented by the pangs of remorse, and pursued by the phantom of ingratitude. To complete my despair, this unfortunate lady was apprized of my marriage with another woman; a circumstance which I had anxiously concealed from her. She fled from her father's house at a time when her husband and brother were hourly expected. What became of her I knew not. She left behind her a letter to her father, in which the melancholy truth was told. "Shame and remorse had no power over my life. To elude the storm of invective and upbraiding, to quiet the uproar of my mind, I did not betake myself to voluntary death. My pusillanimity still clung to this wretched existence. I abruptly retired from the scene, and, repairing to the port, embarked in the first vessel which appeared. The ship chanced to belong to Wilmington, in Delaware, and here I sought out an obscure and cheap abode. "I possessed no means of subsistence. I was unknown to my neighbours, and desired to remain unknown. I was unqualified for manual labour by all the habits of my life; but there was no choice between penury and diligence,--between honest labour and criminal inactivity. I mused incessantly on the forlornness of my condition. Hour after hour passed, and the horrors of want began to encompass me. I sought with eagerness for an avenue by which I might escape from it. The perverseness of my nature led me on from one guilty thought to another. I took refuge in my customary sophistries, and reconciled myself at length to a scheme of--_forgery_!"	{ "id": "18508" }
10	None	"Having ascertained my purpose, it was requisite to search out the means by which I might effect it. These were not clearly or readily suggested. The more I contemplated my project, the more numerous and arduous its difficulties appeared. I had no associates in my undertaking. A due regard to my safety, and the unextinguished sense of honour, deterred me from seeking auxiliaries and co-agents. The esteem of mankind was the spring of all my activity, the parent of all my virtue and all my vice. To preserve this, it was necessary that my guilty projects should have neither witness nor partaker. "I quickly discovered that to execute this scheme demanded time, application, and money, none of which my present situation would permit me to devote to it. At first it appeared that an attainable degree of skill and circumspection would enable me to arrive, by means of counterfeit bills, to the pinnacle of affluence and honour. My error was detected by a closer scrutiny, and I finally saw nothing in this path but enormous perils and insurmountable impediments. "Yet what alternative was offered me? To maintain myself by the labour of my hands, to perform any toilsome or prescribed task, was incompatible with my nature. My habits debarred me from country occupations. My pride regarded as vile and ignominious drudgery any employment which the town could afford. Meanwhile, my wants were as urgent as ever, and my funds were exhausted. "There are few, perhaps, whose external situation resembled mine, who would have found in it any thing but incitements to industry and invention. A thousand methods of subsistence, honest but laborious, were at my command, but to these I entertained an irreconcilable aversion. Ease and the respect attendant upon opulence I was willing to purchase at the price of ever-wakeful suspicion and eternal remorse; but, even at this price, the purchase was impossible. "The desperateness of my condition became hourly more apparent. The further I extended my view, the darker grew the clouds which hung over futurity. Anguish and infamy appeared to be the inseparable conditions of my existence. There was one mode of evading the evils that impended. To free myself from self-upbraiding and to shun the persecutions of my fortune was possible only by shaking off life itself. "One evening, as I traversed the bank of the creek, these dismal meditations were uncommonly intense. They at length terminated in a resolution to throw myself into the stream. The first impulse was to rush instantly to my death; but the remembrance of papers, lying at my lodgings, which might unfold more than I desired to the curiosity of survivors, induced me to postpone this catastrophe till the next morning. "My purpose being formed, I found my heart lightened of its usual weight. By you it will be thought strange, but it is nevertheless true, that I derived from this new prospect not only tranquillity but cheerfulness. I hastened home. As soon as I entered, my landlord informed me that a person had been searching for me in my absence. This was an unexampled incident, and foreboded me no good. I was strongly persuaded that my visitant had been led hither not by friendly but hostile purposes. This persuasion was confirmed by the description of the stranger's guise and demeanour given by my landlord. My fears instantly recognised the image of Watson, the man by whom I had been so eminently benefited, and whose kindness I had compensated by the ruin of his sister and the confusion of his family. "An interview with this man was less to be endured than to look upon the face of an avenging deity. I was determined to avoid this interview, and, for this end, to execute my fatal purpose within the hour. My papers were collected with a tremulous hand, and consigned to the flames. I then bade my landlord inform all visitants that I should not return till the next day, and once more hastened towards the river. "My way led past the inn where one of the stages from Baltimore was accustomed to stop. I was not unaware that Watson had possibly been brought in the coach which had recently arrived, and which now stood before the door of the inn. The danger of my being descried or encountered by him as I passed did not fail to occur. This was to be eluded by deviating from the main street. "Scarcely had I turned a corner for this purpose when I was accosted by a young man whom I knew to be an inhabitant of the town, but with whom I had hitherto had no intercourse but what consisted in a transient salutation. He apologized for the liberty of addressing me, and, at the same time, inquired if I understood the French language. "Being answered in the affirmative, he proceeded to tell me that in the stage, just arrived, had come a passenger, a youth who appeared to be French, who was wholly unacquainted with our language, and who had been seized with a violent disease. "My informant had felt compassion for the forlorn condition of the stranger, and had just been seeking me at my lodgings, in hope that my knowledge of French would enable me to converse with the sick man, and obtain from him a knowledge of his situation and views. "The apprehensions I had precipitately formed were thus removed, and I readily consented to perform this service. The youth was, indeed, in a deplorable condition. Besides the pains of his disease, he was overpowered by dejection. The innkeeper was extremely anxious for the removal of his guest. He was by no means willing to sustain the trouble and expense of a sick or a dying man, for which it was scarcely probable that he should ever be reimbursed. The traveller had no baggage, and his dress betokened the pressure of many wants. "My compassion for this stranger was powerfully awakened. I was in possession of a suitable apartment, for which I had no power to pay the rent that was accruing; but my inability in this respect was unknown, and I might enjoy my lodgings unmolested for some weeks. The fate of this youth would be speedily decided, and I should be left at liberty to execute my first intentions before my embarrassments should be visibly increased. "After a moment's pause, I conducted the stranger to my home, placed him in my own bed, and became his nurse. His malady was such as is known in the tropical islands by the name of the yellow or malignant fever, and the physician who was called speedily pronounced his case desperate. "It was my duty to warn him of the death that was hastening, and to promise the fulfilment of any of his wishes not inconsistent with my present situation. He received my intelligence with fortitude, and appeared anxious to communicate some information respecting his own state. His pangs and his weakness scarcely allowed him to be intelligible. From his feeble efforts and broken narrative I collected thus much concerning his family and fortune. "His father's name was Vincentio Lodi. From a merchant at Leghorn, he had changed himself into a planter in the island of Guadaloupe. His son had been sent, at an early age, for the benefits of education, to Europe. The young Vincentio was, at length, informed by his father, that, being weary of his present mode of existence, he had determined to sell his property and transport himself to the United States. The son was directed to hasten home, that he might embark, with his father, on this voyage. "The summons was cheerfully obeyed. The youth, on his arrival at the island, found preparation making for the funeral of his father. It appeared that the elder Lodi had flattered one of his slaves with the prospect of his freedom, but had, nevertheless, included this slave in the sale that he had made of his estate. Actuated by revenge, the slave assassinated Lodi in the open street, and resigned himself, without a struggle, to the punishment which the law had provided for such a deed. "The property had been recently transferred, and the price was now presented to young Vincentio by the purchaser. He was by no means inclined to adopt his father's project, and was impatient to return with his inheritance to France. Before this could be done, the conduct of his father had rendered a voyage to the Continent indispensable. "Lodi had a daughter, whom, a few weeks previous to his death, he had intrusted to an American captain for whom he had contracted a friendship. The vessel was bound to Philadelphia; but the conduct she was to pursue, and the abode she was to select, on her arrival, were known only to the father, whose untimely death involved the son in considerable uncertainty with regard to his sister's fate. His anxiety on this account induced him to seize the first conveyance that offered. In a short time he landed at Baltimore. "As soon as he recovered from the fatigues of his voyage, he prepared to go to Philadelphia. Thither his baggage was immediately sent under the protection of a passenger and countryman. His money consisted in Portuguese gold, which, in pursuance of advice, he had changed into bank-notes. He besought me, in pathetic terms, to search out his sister, whose youth and poverty, and ignorance of the language and manners of the country, might expose her to innumerable hardships. At the same time, he put a pocket-book and small volume into my hand, indicating, by his countenance and gestures, his desire that I would deliver them to his sister. "His obsequies being decently performed, I had leisure to reflect upon the change in my condition which this incident had produced. In the pocket-book were found bills to the amount of twenty thousand dollars. The volume proved to be a manuscript, written by the elder Lodi in Italian, and contained memoirs of the ducal house of Visconti, from whom the writer believed himself to have lineally descended. "Thus had I arrived, by an avenue so much beyond my foresight, at the possession of wealth. The evil which impelled me to the brink of suicide, and which was the source, though not of all, yet of the larger portion, of my anguish, was now removed. What claims to honour or to ease were consequent on riches were, by an extraordinary fortune, now conferred upon me. "Such, for a time, were my new-born but transitory raptures. I forgot that this money was not mine. That it had been received, under every sanction of fidelity, for another's use. To retain it was equivalent to robbery. The sister of the deceased was the rightful claimant; it was my duty to search her out, and perform my tacit but sacred obligations, by putting the whole into her possession. "This conclusion was too adverse to my wishes not to be strenuously combated. I asked what it was that gave man the power of ascertaining the successor to his property. During his life, he might transfer the actual possession; but, if vacant at his death, he into whose hands accident should cast it was the genuine proprietor. It is true, that the law had sometimes otherwise decreed, but in law there was no validity further than it was able, by investigation and punishment, to enforce its decrees: but would the law extort this money from me? "It was rather by gesture than by words that the will of Lodi was imparted. It was the topic of remote inferences and vague conjecture rather than of explicit and unerring declarations. Besides, if the lady were found, would not prudence dictate the reservation of her fortune to be administered by me, for her benefit? Of this her age and education had disqualified herself. It was sufficient for the maintenance of both. She would regard me as her benefactor and protector. By supplying all her wants and watching over her safety without apprizing her of the means by which I shall be enabled to do this, I shall lay irresistible claims to her love and her gratitude. "Such were the sophistries by which reason was seduced and my integrity annihilated. I hastened away from my present abode. I easily traced the baggage of the deceased to an inn, and gained possession of it. It contained nothing but clothes and books. I then instituted the most diligent search after the young lady. For a time, my exertions were fruitless. "Meanwhile, the possessor of this house thought proper to embark with his family for Europe. The sum which he demanded for his furniture, though enormous, was precipitately paid by me. His servants were continued in their former stations, and in the day at which he relinquished the mansion, I entered on possession. "There was no difficulty in persuading the world that Welbeck was a personage of opulence and rank. My birth and previous adventures it was proper to conceal. The facility with which mankind are misled in their estimate of characters, their proneness to multiply inferences and conjectures, will not be readily conceived by one destitute of my experience. My sudden appearance on the stage, my stately reserve, my splendid habitation, and my circumspect deportment, were sufficient to entitle me to homage. The artifices that were used to unveil the truth, and the guesses that were current respecting me, were adapted to gratify my ruling passion. "I did not remit my diligence to discover the retreat of Mademoiselle Lodi. I found her, at length, in the family of a kinsman of the captain under whose care she had come to America. Her situation was irksome and perilous. She had already experienced the evils of being protectorless and indigent, and my seasonable interference snatched her from impending and less supportable ills. "I could safely unfold all that I knew of her brother's history, except the legacy which he had left. I ascribed the diligence with which I had sought her to his death-bed injunctions, and prevailed upon her to accept from me the treatment which she would have received from her brother if he had continued to live, and if his power to benefit had been equal to my own. "Though less can be said in praise of the understanding than of the sensibilities of this woman, she is one whom no one could refrain from loving, though placed in situations far less favourable to the generation of that sentiment than mine. In habits of domestic and incessant intercourse, in the perpetual contemplation of features animated by boundless gratitude and ineffable sympathies, it could not be expected that either she or I should escape enchantment. "The poison was too sweet not to be swallowed with avidity by me. Too late I remembered that I was already enslaved by inextricable obligations. It was easy to have hidden this impediment from the eyes of my companion, but here my integrity refused to yield. I can, indeed, lay claim to little merit on account of this forbearance. If there had been no alternative between deceit and the frustration of my hopes, I should doubtless have dissembled the truth with as little scruple on this as on a different occasion; but I could not be blind to the weakness of her with whom I had to contend.	{ "id": "18508" }
11	None	"Meanwhile large deductions had been made from my stock of money, and the remnant would be speedily consumed by my present mode of life. My expenses far exceeded my previous expectations. In no long time I should be reduced to my ancient poverty, which the luxurious existence that I now enjoyed, and the regard due to my beloved and helpless companion, would render more irksome than ever. Some scheme to rescue me from this fate was indispensable; but my aversion to labour, to any pursuit the end of which was merely gain, and which would require application and attention, continued undiminished. "I was plunged anew into dejection and perplexity. From this I was somewhat relieved by a plan suggested by Mr. Thetford. I thought I had experience of his knowledge and integrity, and the scheme that he proposed seemed liable to no possibility of miscarriage. A ship was to be purchased, supplied with a suitable cargo, and despatched to a port in the West Indies. Loss from storms and enemies was to be precluded by insurance. Every hazard was to be enumerated, and the ship and cargo valued at the highest rate. Should the voyage be safely performed, the profits would be double the original expense. Should the ship be taken or wrecked, the insurers would have bound themselves to make ample, speedy, and certain indemnification. Thetford's brother, a wary and experienced trader, was to be the supercargo. "All my money was laid out upon this scheme. Scarcely enough was reserved to supply domestic and personal wants. Large debts were likewise incurred. Our caution had, as we conceived, annihilated every chance of failure. Too much could not be expended on a project so infallible; and the vessel, amply fitted and freighted, departed on her voyage. "An interval, not devoid of suspense and anxiety, succeeded. My mercantile inexperience made me distrust the clearness of my own discernment, and I could not but remember that my utter and irretrievable destruction was connected with the failure of my scheme. Time added to my distrust and apprehensions. The time at which tidings of the ship were to be expected elapsed without affording any information of her destiny. My anxieties, however, were to be carefully hidden from the world. I had taught mankind to believe that this project had been adopted more for amusement than gain; and the debts which I had contracted seemed to arise from willingness to adhere to established maxims, more than from the pressure of necessity. "Month succeeded month, and intelligence was still withheld. The notes which I had given for one-third of the cargo, and for the premium of insurance, would shortly become due. For the payment of the former, and the cancelling of the latter, I had relied upon the expeditious return or the demonstrated loss of the vessel. Neither of these events had taken place. "My cares were augmented from another quarter. My companion's situation now appeared to be such as, if our intercourse had been sanctified by wedlock, would have been regarded with delight. As it was, no symptoms were equally to be deplored. Consequences, as long as they were involved in uncertainty, were extenuated or overlooked; but now, when they became apparent and inevitable, were fertile of distress and upbraiding. "Indefinable fears, and a desire to monopolize all the meditations and affections of this being, had induced me to perpetuate her ignorance of any but her native language, and debar her from all intercourse with the world. My friends were of course inquisitive respecting her character, adventures, and particularly her relation to me. The consciousness how much the truth redounded to my dishonour made me solicitous to lead conjecture astray. For this purpose I did not discountenance the conclusion that was adopted by some,--that she was my daughter. I reflected that all dangerous surmises would be effectually precluded by this belief. "These precautions afforded me some consolation in my present difficulties. It was requisite to conceal the lady's condition from the world. If this should be ineffectual, it would not be difficult to divert suspicion from my person. The secrecy that I had practised would be justified, in the apprehension of those to whom the personal condition of Clemenza should be disclosed, by the feelings of a father. "Meanwhile, it was an obvious expedient to remove the unhappy lady to a distance from impertinent observers. A rural retreat, lonely and sequestered, was easily procured, and hither she consented to repair. This arrangement being concerted, I had leisure to reflect upon the evils which every hour brought nearer, and which threatened to exterminate me. "My inquietudes forbade me to sleep, and I was accustomed to rise before day and seek some respite in the fields. Returning from one of these unseasonable rambles, I chanced to meet you. Your resemblance to the deceased Lodi, in person and visage, is remarkable. When you first met my eye, this similitude startled me. Your subsequent appeal to my compassion was clothed in such terms as formed a powerful contrast with your dress, and prepossessed me greatly in favour of your education and capacity. "In my present hopeless condition, every incident, however trivial, was attentively considered, with a view to extract from it some means of escaping from my difficulties. My love for the Italian girl, in spite of all my efforts to keep it alive, had begun to languish. Marriage was impossible; and had now, in some degree, ceased to be desirable. We are apt to judge of others by ourselves. The passion I now found myself disposed to ascribe chiefly to fortuitous circumstances; to the impulse of gratitude, and the exclusion of competitors; and believed that your resemblance to her brother, your age and personal accomplishments, might, after a certain time, and in consequence of suitable contrivances on my part, give a new direction to her feelings. To gain your concurrence, I relied upon your simplicity, your gratitude, and your susceptibility to the charms of this bewitching creature. "I contemplated, likewise, another end. Mrs. Wentworth is rich. A youth who was once her favourite, and designed to inherit her fortunes, has disappeared, for some years, from the scene. His death is most probable, but of that there is no satisfactory information. The life of this person, whose name is Clavering, is an obstacle to some designs which had occurred to me in relation to this woman. My purposes were crude and scarcely formed. I need not swell the catalogue of my errors by expatiating upon them. Suffice it to say that the peculiar circumstances of your introduction to me led me to reflections on the use that might be made of your agency, in procuring this lady's acquiescence in my schemes. You were to be ultimately persuaded to confirm her in the belief that her nephew was dead. To this consummation it was indispensable to lead you by slow degrees and circuitous paths. Meanwhile, a profound silence, with regard to your genuine history, was to be observed; and to this forbearance your consent was obtained with more readiness than I expected. "There was an additional motive for the treatment you received from me. My personal projects and cares had hitherto prevented me from reading Lodi's manuscript; a slight inspection, however, was sufficient to prove that the work was profound and eloquent. My ambition has panted, with equal avidity, after the reputation of literature and opulence. To claim the authorship of this work was too harmless and specious a stratagem not to be readily suggested. I meant to translate it into English, and to enlarge it by enterprising incidents of my own invention. My scruples to assume the merit of the original composer might thus be removed. For this end, your assistance as an amanuensis would be necessary. "You will perceive that all these projects depended on the seasonable arrival of intelligence from ----. The delay of another week would seal my destruction. The silence might arise from the foundering of the ship and the destruction of all on board. In this case, the insurance was not forfeited, but payment could not be obtained within a year. Meanwhile, the premium and other debts must be immediately discharged, and this was beyond my power. Meanwhile, I was to live in a manner that would not belie my pretensions; but my coffers were empty. "I cannot adequately paint the anxieties with which I have been haunted. Each hour has added to the burden of my existence, till, in consequence of the events of this day, it has become altogether insupportable. Some hours ago, I was summoned by Thetford to his house. The messenger informed me that tidings had been received of my ship. In answer to my eager interrogations, he could give no other information than that she had been captured by the British. He was unable to relate particulars. "News of her safe return would, indeed, have been far more acceptable; but even this information was a source of infinite congratulation. It precluded the demand of my insurers. The payment of other debts might be postponed for a month, and my situation be the same as before the adoption of this successless scheme. Hope and joy were reinstated in my bosom, and I hasted to Thetford's counting-house. "He received me with an air of gloomy dissatisfaction. I accounted for his sadness by supposing him averse to communicate information which was less favourable than our wishes had dictated. He confirmed, with visible reluctance, the news of her capture. He had just received letters from his brother, acquainting him with all particulars, and containing the official documents of this transaction. "This had no tendency to damp my satisfaction, and I proceeded to peruse with eagerness the papers which he put into my hand. I had not proceeded far, when my joyous hopes vanished. Two French mulattoes had, after much solicitation, and the most solemn promises to carry with them no articles which the laws of war decree to be contraband, obtained a passage in the vessel. She was speedily encountered by a privateer, by whom every receptacle was ransacked. In a chest, belonging to the Frenchmen, and which they had affirmed to contain nothing but their clothes, were found two sabres, and other accoutrements of an officer of cavalry. Under this pretence, the vessel was captured and condemned, and this was a cause of forfeiture which had not been provided against in the contract of insurance. "By this untoward event my hopes were irreparably blasted. The utmost efforts were demanded to conceal my thoughts from my companion. The anguish that preyed upon my heart was endeavoured to be masked by looks of indifference. I pretended to have been previously informed by the messenger not only of the capture, but of the cause that led to it, and forbore to expatiate upon my loss, or to execrate the authors of my disappointment. My mind, however, was the theatre of discord and agony, and I waited with impatience for an opportunity to leave him. "For want of other topics, I asked by whom this information had been brought. He answered, that the bearer was Captain Amos Watson, whose vessel had been forfeited, at the same time, under a different pretence. He added that, my name being mentioned accidentally to Watson, the latter had betrayed marks of great surprise, and been very earnest in his inquiries respecting my situation. Having obtained what knowledge Thetford was able to communicate, the captain had departed, avowing a former acquaintance with me, and declaring his intention of paying me a visit. "These words operated on my frame like lightning. All within me was tumult and terror, and I rushed precipitately out of the house. I went forward with unequal steps, and at random. Some instinct led me into the fields, and I was not apprized of the direction of my steps, till, looking up, I found myself upon the shore of Schuylkill. "Thus was I, a second time, overborne by hopeless and incurable evils. An interval of motley feelings, of specious artifice and contemptible imposture, had elapsed since my meeting with the stranger at Wilmington. Then my forlorn state had led me to the brink of suicide. A brief and feverish respite had been afforded me, but now was I transported to the verge of the same abyss. "Amos Watson was the brother of the angel whom I had degraded and destroyed. What but fiery indignation and unappeasable vengeance could lead him into my presence? With what heart could I listen to his invectives? How could I endure to look upon the face of one whom I had loaded with such atrocious and intolerable injuries? "I was acquainted with his loftiness of mind; his detestation of injustice, and the whirlwind passions that ingratitude and villany like mine were qualified to awaken in his bosom. I dreaded not his violence. The death that he might be prompted to inflict was no object of aversion. It was poverty and disgrace, the detection of my crimes, the looks and voice of malediction and upbraiding, from which my cowardice shrunk. "Why should I live? I must vanish from that stage which I had lately trodden. My flight must be instant and precipitate. To be a fugitive from exasperated creditors, and from the industrious revenge of Watson, was an easy undertaking; but whither could I fly, where I should not be pursued by the phantoms of remorse, by the dread of hourly detection, by the necessities of hunger and thirst? In what scene should I be exempt from servitude and drudgery? Was my existence embellished with enjoyments that would justify my holding it, encumbered with hardships and immersed in obscurity? "There was no room for hesitation. To rush into the stream before me, and put an end at once to my life and the miseries inseparably linked with it, was the only proceeding which fate had left to my choice. My muscles were already exerted for this end, when the helpless condition of Clemenza was remembered. What provision could I make against the evils that threatened her? Should I leave her utterly forlorn and friendless? Mrs. Wentworth's temper was forgiving and compassionate. Adversity had taught her to participate and her wealth enabled her to relieve distress. Who was there by whom such powerful claims to succour and protection could be urged as by this desolate girl? Might I not state her situation in a letter to this lady, and urge irresistible pleas for the extension of her kindness to this object? "These thoughts made me suspend my steps. I determined to seek my habitation once more, and, having written and deposited this letter, to return to the execution of my fatal purpose. I had scarcely reached my own door, when some one approached along the pavement. The form, at first, was undistinguishable, but, by coming, at length, within the illumination of a lamp, it was perfectly recognised. "To avoid this detested interview was now impossible. Watson approached and accosted me. In this conflict of tumultuous feelings I was still able to maintain an air of intrepidity. His demeanour was that of a man who struggles with his rage. His accents were hurried, and scarcely articulate. 'I have ten words to say to you,' said he; 'lead into the house, and to some private room. My business with you will be despatched in a breath.' "I made him no answer, but led the way into my house, and to my study. On entering this room, I put the light upon the table, and, turning to my visitant, prepared silently to hear what he had to unfold. He struck his clenched hand against the table with violence. His motion was of that tempestuous kind as to overwhelm the power of utterance, and found it easier to vent itself in gesticulations than in words. At length he exclaimed,-- "'It is well. Now has the hour, so long and so impatiently demanded by my vengeance, arrived. Welbeck! Would that my first words could strike thee dead! They will so, if thou hast any title to the name of man. " 'My sister is dead; dead of anguish and a broken heart. Remote from her friends; in a hovel; the abode of indigence and misery. " 'Her husband is no more. He returned after a long absence, a tedious navigation, and vicissitudes of hardships. He flew to the bosom of his love; of his wife. She was gone; lost to him, and to virtue. In a fit of desperation, he retired to his chamber and despatched himself. This is the instrument with which the deed was performed.' "Saying this, Watson took a pistol from his pocket, and held it to my head. I lifted not my hand to turn aside the weapon. I did not shudder at the spectacle, or shrink from his approaching hand. With fingers clasped together, and eyes fixed upon the floor, I waited till his fury was exhausted. He continued:-- "'All passed in a few hours. The elopement of his daughter,--the death of his son. O my father! Most loved and most venerable of men! To see thee changed into a maniac! Haggard and wild! Deterred from outrage on thyself and those around thee by fetters and stripes! What was it that saved me from a like fate? To view this hideous ruin, and to think by whom it was occasioned! Yet not to become frantic like thee, my father; or not destroy myself like thee, my brother! My friend! -- "'No. For this hour was I reserved; to avenge your wrongs and mine in the blood of this ungrateful villain.' " 'There,' continued he, producing a second pistol, and tendering it to me,--'there is thy defence. Take we opposite sides of this table, and fire at the same instant.' "During this address I was motionless. He tendered the pistol, but I unclasped not my hands to receive it. " 'Why do you hesitate?' resumed he. 'Let the chance between us be equal, or fire you first.' " 'No,' said I, 'I am ready to die by your hand. I wish it. It will preclude the necessity of performing the office for myself. I have injured you, and merit all that your vengeance can inflict. I know your nature too well to believe that my death will be perfect expiation. When the gust of indignation is past, the remembrance of your deed will only add to your sum of misery; yet I do not love you well enough to wish that you would forbear. I desire to die, and to die by another's hand rather than my own.' " 'Coward!' exclaimed Watson, with augmented vehemence, 'you know me too well to believe me capable of assassination. Vile subterfuge! Contemptible plea! Take the pistol and defend yourself. You want not the power or the will; but, knowing that I spurn at murder, you think your safety will be found in passiveness. Your refusal will avail you little. Your fame, if not your life, is at my mercy. If you falter now, I will allow you to live, but only till I have stabbed your reputation.' "I now fixed my eyes steadfastly upon him, and spoke:--'How much a stranger are you to the feelings of Welbeck! How poor a judge of his cowardice! I take your pistol, and consent to your conditions.' "We took opposite sides of the table. 'Are you ready?' he cried; 'fire!' "Both triggers were drawn at the same instant. Both pistols were discharged. Mine was negligently raised. Such is the untoward chance that presides over human affairs; such is the malignant destiny by which my steps have ever been pursued. The bullet whistled harmlessly by me,--levelled by an eye that never before failed, and with so small an interval between us. I escaped, but my blind and random shot took place in his heart. "There is the fruit of this disastrous meeting. The catalogue of death is thus completed. Thou sleepest, Watson! Thy sister is at rest, and so art thou. Thy vows of vengeance are at an end. It was not reserved for thee to be thy own and thy sister's avenger. Welbeck's measure of transgressions is now full, and his own hand must execute the justice that is due to him."	{ "id": "18508" }

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